


The Extraordinary Ball-Maker

by sad_pterodactyl



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age II, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: After Tresspasser, All angst and past trauma that comes with Fenris, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Canon Disabled Character, Canon-Typical Violence, Classical tragedy, Cloak & Dagger - Freeform, Denial, Dissolved Inquisition, Established Relationship, F/M, Hawke & Inquistior friendship, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, M/M, Mentions of unhealthy drinking, No Beta - yet, Past Torture, Politics, Post-Canon, Reunions, There will be a happy ending eventually in a fic or two..., Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, and then some more angst, part of a series, relationship troubles
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-06
Updated: 2021-03-09
Packaged: 2021-03-17 18:40:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 32,699
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29230143
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sad_pterodactyl/pseuds/sad_pterodactyl
Summary: After the Inquisition dissolves Fenriel Lavellan is left to his own devices in Skyhold. That is until someone sends tevene assassins after him and quickly he's pulled back into the never ending ball of politics, scheming Magister's and looming dangers. Fortunately there are couple of old, friendly faces to help him out... if only he would let them.Or: Dorian organises a Ball, Maevaris brings alcohol, Varric brings a treaty, Hawke brings a troupe, Fenris brings a scowl and Inquisitor brings troubles - what could go wrong?
Relationships: Fenris/Female Hawke, Male Inquisitor/Dorian Pavus, Male Lavellan/Dorian Pavus
Comments: 4
Kudos: 11





	1. Plans and Reunions

**Author's Note:**

  * For [wearwind](https://archiveofourown.org/users/wearwind/gifts).



> This fic is completed, I'll update it on more or less weekly basis while ironing out some of the kinks.
> 
> Also: it's a part of a multi-fic series called "The Extraordinary Series" which you can find here: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1521449
> 
> I highly recommend to read "Dorian Pavus, the Extraordinary Antivan" before that one, but the basics are here: Lelianna is the Divine, Celine and Brialla rule the Orlesian Empire, Hawke & Fenris are very much together and changing the political landscape of the Marches, the Inquisitor is an elven mage who did drink from the Well of Sorrows and is engaged to Dorian.
> 
> For Content warnings that include spoilers for this work look to End Notes!
> 
> Also: the last meeting between Dorian, Hawke, Fenris, and the Inquisitor did not go so well.

_“…long after we are gone, our voices will linger in these walls for as long as this place remains. But I will admit that the part of me that is going will very much miss the part of you that is staying.” G’Kar, Babylon 5._

_Five months after disbanding the Inquisition, Skyhold_

The ex-Inquisitor, Herald of Andraste and Saviour of Thedas, Fenriel Lavellan was busy trying to find another blanket. But the only thing he could find were old draperies, curtains and tablecloths all embroidered in various colours, flashing the symbol of the flaming eye at him in silent disapproval. He sighed heavily and gathered the rich cloth between his remaining arm and the prosthetic. _It will do._

Since disbanding of the Inquisition Skyhold was eerily quiet as the clinking of the swords and shields, laughter and orders were slowly becoming a distant memory in the stone walls. So were his responsibilities as well. After almost six months all soldiers were provided for and sent back home, all alliances and documents signed off, all spies and agents secretly designated to other tasks. The Inquisition was now officially history. _So where does that leaves the Inquisitor?_ He wondered bitterly. _Catering the pilgrims apparently._ Another part of his mind responded. The only people that remained in the stronghold were him, Dagna, and a handful of servants and soldiers that Leliana pressed upon him. Why the dwarven scientist decided to stay was beyond him, but she insisted that Skyhold is the best laboratory she could ever get anyway. She was also asking, every day during breakfast if she could test his fade-touched scarf. Fearing that he would never again see the faithful piece of green wool he adamantly refused. Beyond that there was only an endless tide of pilgrims coming and going to take a look at the Herald of Andraste. He could go up North. To Tevinter. To Dorian. He just.... wasn’t ready. Not yet. Once the bustle of disbanding the Inquisition quieted down and he finally had a moment of peace he…

He heard soft steps behind him and turned quickly.

“Your Worship!” a startled voice answered his movement. He saw two pilgrims that apparently wandered down here. A mild annoyance tugged at his mind when they quickly looked down in reverence. He was standing here with an armload of cloth like a tailor’s apprentice for Maker’s sake!

“We didn’t see you down here.” One of them explained quickly and Fenriel took a better look at them in the shadowed hall. The two were elvish, slender and quite young. Their bright green eyes looked at him from under the dark _vallaslin_ of Andruil. _Dalish hunters then._ He thought and felt his annoyance fading. Even after everything that happened, everything that he learnt, it was still good to see one of his own kin.

“Here, let me take that for you” the one the right said reaching with his arms to take the cloth from the ex-Inquisitor. Reacting instinctively Fenriel bent forward to hand over his load. The only warning that something was amiss was a glint of light reflecting of a blade.

The second hunter, quick like viper stabbed at him with a long knife. He jerked backward dropping the cloth on the ground. But the Dalish hunter was ready for that and the blade reached his left arm.

The slender dagger rebounded with a loud noise off the prosthetic arm.

 _Huh, that was lucky_ raced through Fenriel’s mind. Taking another few quick steps back, he tried desperately to create some distance between himself and the assailants. He reached up towards the Void to set up the magical barrier –

And he lunged to the ground to avoid a wide slash from the first hunter. He hit the stone floor unceremoniously. The pain of the fall reverberated from his shoulder all the way to his chest. Fenriel looked up and cursed loudlessly. The two attackers moved quietly as shadows, their faces set in determination and their movements used to hunting different prey than halla.

Quickly gathering himself of the ground Lavellan spitted the dust out of his mouth. He set his mouth into a stubborn line. With a movement trained countless times Fenriel charged the aura around himself and the air filled with the ozone - smell of thunder. The tiny bolts sizzled around him and when ex-Inquisitor looked in the purple light at his assailants, he could see hesitation entering their eyes for the first time.

Unable to keep a satisfied smirk of his face, Fenriel let the power flow. From the Void, through him and into the waking world. The thunder cracked, flooding the hall with unbearably bright light and the two elves threw themselves to the ground to avoid getting hit by the lightning.

Breathing heavily Lavellan felt the tingling sensations of electricity all over his skin fading away. He reached out deeper into the Void and realized that he was completely spent. The knees bended under him as the sudden exhaustion hit him, and he knelt down on one knee heavily. A shadow of panic raised in his throat.

“One tiny bolt, one! Dread Wolf take it!” he murmured to himself and looked up trying hard to swallow down the fear.

He did that just in time to see that his attackers weren’t going to miss their chance. Running on adrenaline he rushed back to avoid the slashing blades. But he was too slow.

Desperately he managed to escape the first cut the knife cutting his scarf. But the second blade gashed his shoulder and Fenriel cried out in pain, as the red blood stained his clothes. Trying to scramble back up, while still trying to get further away from his assailants, he lost his balance. Instead of standing up, he fell further down, throwing his prosthetic arm back.

A kick to his ribs delivered by one of the elves spread him lying on his side and the other raised his blade high.

_What a stupid way to die._

The loud swoosh of air was instantly followed by gauging sounds, when blood flowered on the mouths of the two hunters.

Heavily, they slumped to the ground, the steel belts jutting out of their backs.

Feeling as if every limb weighed a tonne Fenriel propped himself up on his elbow, and immediately hissed with pain when the leather of his jacket moved over the wound.

“Inquisitor!” Dagna shouted in distress and run towards him. In the right hand of the dwarven woman was a menacingly dark crossbow, the one used to dispatch the attackers.

“I’m not the Inquisitor anymore, Dagna” Fenriel mumbled weakly and took the offered hand to help himself up.

“You’re hurt! Is it deep?” she chattered worriedly, and Lavellan was thankful that at least she didn’t try to bottle up his blood for later study yet. Slowly, with his mind still dazed by the fight, he bent over one of the dead elves. Taking back the linen shirt, he bared the shoulder of the would-be-assassin and revealed an old, burnt scar in a shape of an ornamental letter.

The ex-Inquisitor looked up at Dagna and when their eyes met they knew there was only one explanation.

“Slaves.” They said in unison and Fenriel’s thoughts travelled North.

***

The Magisterium erupted in tremendous noise. The raised voices of dozens of the high and mighty of the Tevinter Imperium bounced off the marble walls and columns and came back with echo. The good acoustic of the circular hall wasn’t doing well with sessions like this one. Dorian kept his head straight, his hands entwined leisurely behind his back even though the multiple screams, insults, raised hands and mouth open in indignation were clearly turned towards him. He felt the calm presence of Mae and Albertius behind his back and the ever present weight of the crystal on his chest. The Magisterium could yell all they wanted when it came to him.

“He’s Lucerni’s pawn!” an angry voice rose from the crowd.

“Livius is too young to be a Divine!”

“It’s orlesian influence!”

“How can we allow this?!”

“Order! Order!” Lord Speaker - a frail, small man with watery eyes hidden behind the glasses tried to do his job with no success. “ORDER!”

The booming voice strengthened with a touch of magic threw off few hair pins and fancy head wears when the air moved with it. The roar of the crowd quieted. It certainly helped to herd magisterial cats when you were the only person in the room allowed to use magic.

“The Conclave was clear on that. With a touch of holy inspiration Tiberius Livius became today the Divine Bergoulis Franthis after the unfortunate demise of our late Holy Father. May his service to the Chantry and the Tevinter Imperium will be long and prosperous. Session closed.” With these words the uproar erupted again, but the Lord Speaker simply turned around to the door and took the imperial stone with him. No formal discussions will be held this day.

“Dorian. _Dorian._ ” Mae repeated more insistently and he finally stopped taking in the beautiful chaos before him.

“What? Can’t you see this? We did it!” Dorian asked with a smile, waving his hand at the angry crowd.

“Yes, we did. And that’s exactly why you should stop smiling like a lunatic and get out of here before someone decides that a dead Divine would be nicely accompanied by a dead Magister.” She spoke quickly, her eyes were calculating when she looked at the Magisterium.

“Always so serious, Mae” he teased, but they all turned to the doors leading out of their lodge.

“Only for you, Dorian. You have a talent to make things far too serious for my liking.” They walked fast through the corridors leading outside the building and seeing various Magisters hurrying out like dark, angry birds when their robes fluttered behind them.

“I’ll take my leave now. Try not to die, we still have to attend the meeting with our new Divine, don’t we?” Albertius murmured to them in his usual tone and turned right.

He and Mae continued walking out of the Magisterium, into the blinding sun of a hot, northern day. Dorian’s face turned sour as he narrowed his eyes in the sun. Somehow it reminded him that even if that was a moment of triumph for the Lucerni, he still had unfinished business with some of the Tevene nobility.

“Speaking of dead Magisters. Why I can’t find any connection between Remus and the murder of my father? I won’t believe he did _everything_ right.” They went down the white stairs and started onto the long path flanked by tall trees which lead to the outer wall of the Magisterium. The restrictions on movement, guards, slaves, magic and weaponry in the whole area made it at least a little harder to try and kill each other.

“Maybe he didn’t. And maybe he doesn’t have any connection at all. Blood feuds aside he isn’t the only one who could want Halward dead.” Mae answered him.

“But...” Before Dorian could argue his point they both heard a muffled voice coming out of his silk robes.

“ _Dorian?”_

“ _Amatus!_ ” Dorian answered with evident surprise and easily freed the crystal amulet from his clothes. Mae rolled her eyes at his instant reaction.

 _“Can you talk? It’s probably middle of a day...”_ Something in the calm voice of his far away lover made him narrow his eyebrows in worry. He looked in silent question to Mae, but she only shrugged her shoulders.

“As if I ever had anything to do here anyway. You know how politics are – extraordinarily boring.” He responded lightly, but internally he grew anxious to hear what made Fenriel call him.

 _“So, just indulge me for a moment. Would you happen to know anyone interested enough in killing me that he would sent two extremely pricey slaves for a long, long journey to my little stronghold?”_ The elf’s voice was light as if he was debating some theoretical problem, but Dorian stopped in his tracks. Maevaris suddenly grew much more interested in the conversation.

“What?!”

_“I know, I know. That has to be a long list.”_

” _Amatus_ , are you alright? Damn, I should’ve known better than...” Dorian knew that he was rambling, but he felt as if someone was making a bad joke on him. He was the one that was supposed to face plots and murder attempts for his noble attempts at the game of politics. Fenriel was supposed to disband the Inquisition peacefully, surrounded by folks grateful to him for saving the damned world. That was the whole point of not wanting him in Tevinter, wasn’t it?

 _”Than? Step carefully vhenan, cause I’m not sure if you really want to finish that sentence.”_ Fenriel’s tone grew a touch colder and Dorian shut his mouth with a loud noise.

“Are you alright?” he asked instead.

 _“I’m fine, really. Or least I’ve been worse before. Still, I don’t appreciate being stabbed at and considering that I’m not exactly swarming up in duties right now – how is Tevinter’s weather this part of the year?”_ Fenriel coming to Tevinter. The Magister turned that around mentally. Half made plans, dreams and fears started to come together in Dorian’s mind. And Fenriel, that would mean that he would actually be here. In the flesh. A smile rose on his face.

“It actually may be the perfect time. I could use your help.”

 _“Oh?”_ Fenriel sounded surprised more by the lack of opposition. Mae looked at Dorian questioningly.

“But first... I’ll need to talk to my mother.” Dorian sighed heavily.

***

“They brought flowers?” Dorian asked, pacing the small rug in the main hall of his mansion.

“Yes, they did.” Nadia answered patiently.

“White ones? Lilacs from Qarinus?” he drilled the subject further.

“Just as ordered” the elven woman said steadily. How she found patience to deal with the frustrating magister was beyond comprehension. Still Dorian supposed he couldn’t be all that bad, considering that Nadia was working for him from her own volition. His lips lifted upwardly. Incredible really, what a satisfying thought it was – that she could go and she didn’t. He’ll have to send Fenris a fruit basket one of these days.

“And the chef? You did warn him about the peppers?” Dorian asked and looked with criticism towards his clothes and trying to stretch an invisible wrinkle on his shoulder.

“Three times. Every time you asked, messere.” Nadia responded easily, with a slight smile, as she stood unmoving next to the doors. A picture of composure.

“And the…” before Dorian had time to finish his next thought, she smiled at him reassuringly and cut in mid-sentence.

“All is good. We’ve managed much worse and important guests already, didn’t we messere?” Dorian looked at her with a sigh.

“You never had the un-pleasure of meeting my mother” he said and at exactly that moment a steward dressed in the colours of house Pavus opened up a door and announced grandly:

“Lady Thalrassian, praetor of Qarinus!” Dorian swallowed loudly and straightened his back. Nadia walked inside the mansion, probably to check on the chef again and was left alone to face his guest.

His dear mother, lady Aquinea Thalrassian, the praetor of the Archon, serving the city of Qarinus, Altus and the heiress of the old house of Thalrassian, stepped into his house with long, confident strides. She was a tall, slender woman, with regal posture and face. Her skin was much lighter tone than Dorian’s, but under her auburn hair there was a pair of amber eyes, identical to his own and instantly coming up to meet his gaze.

“Mother.” Dorian said in a way of a greeting, wearing a neutral expression that seemed out of place on his normally expressive features.

“Dorian.” She answered, matching his neutral expression. Aquinea looked him up and down. Dorian felt slightly unsettled as her gaze fixed on his forehead.

“What, mother mine? Are you searching for a sunburst sign, just making sure I have not been, in fact, Tranquilised into behaving like an adult?”

His mother's eyes crinkled in subtle distaste. "Nothing of the sort, I assure you. But don't the Dalish carve their funny little runes into their foreheads to mark belonging? Evidently your Inquisitor is less serious about it than you think."

Dorian resolved to restrain his indignant fury for just this one moment. "Surely you must be joking."

Aquinea's face was perfectly composed. "How fine of you to catch up."

Sighing inwardly, Dorian gestured towards the rest of the mansion with resignation setting in. “Let’s go to the dining room. The lunch should be ready any minute now.”

They were walking through the mansion in silence. Since he came back to Minrathous five months ago they’ve... met. Once, when he was trying to avoid her after his father’s funeral. Dozens times on official meetings, receptions and even on the court floor. They did politics together after all. Chasing corruption, changing the world for the better, chastising cultists for a lack of taste. But now was the first time they’ve met alone.

While he felt conflicted at best when it came to his feelings towards his father, his mother was always making herself perfectly clear on everything. She was a scary mixture of ruthless and righteous and that, alongside blood older than most human countries in Thedas, gained her an unmatchable respect in Qarinus. She would often mock the Magisterium as a place where one could show off his peacock feathers and play politics, while all the true ruling happened in courts and smaller offices. Her composure was legendary, her manners spotless, her investigations so thorough that the saying in Qarinus had it, that if you cut your finger on a piece of paper you’ll better keep the paper as a proof of your innocence, or the Templars will knock to your doors before the dusk. Her rulings as a judge were swift, objective and impossible to avoid. Her judgments on people were merciless, subjective and prejudiced. Cultured, lawful, hypocritical and vain, she was in equal measures everything he loved and hated about his country.

They finally sat down to the table and with a graceful move Aquinea straightened out the napkin next to her plate as the servant came with the soup plates. She quickly assessed him and started in a sure voice.

“So I see that the gossips are true. The south made you soft and now you’re surrounding yourself with servants like an Orlesian. Tell me, did the silvers already started to disappear alongside the servants?” Dorian fought a flare of anger and instead just gritted his teeth. He was expecting this, he told himself.

“It taught me the benefits of making sure that people who feed you actually don’t want to kill you.” He said pleasantly.

“A well-kept slave will return the kindness and generosity with loyalty and good service. There is no need for dramatics, really.” She answered with a scoff and Dorian all but felt a condescending pat on the head.

“How are things going for you, mother?” Dorian asked fighting the urge to tell her exactly what kind of repayment she should expect from any truly freed slave.

“Don’t try to small talk me Dorian. What do you want?” she said simply, cutting straight to the chase.

“What? Can’t I want to spend some time with my mother to strengthen our family bonds?” he teased without much conviction.

“As if either of us had time for that” she responded crisply, but was it his imagination or there was a trace of sadness in the remark, beside the simple irony?

“True.” He took a deep breath and did what he promised himself never to do again. Asked for help.

“I think I know where to find connection between Remus and father’s death.” He stated and Aquinea raised her eyebrow.

“So you finally agree with me that it had to be him?” She asked, her eyes searching his face. To be entirely honest Dorian agreed with that from the moment he first saw the letter informing him of his father’s death. But it would be too far outside his own habits to simply agree with his mother.

“Yes. But I still need help to get hard proof.” Aquinea lips curved in a conflicted emotion. Dorian presumed it was hard for her to decide between her lifelong dedication to the law and the tradition of settling blood debts older than Tevinter itself. Finally she nodded slightly, signalling for him to continue.

“In three weeks we, the Lucerni, will throw a magnificent Primodium Ball to honour our new Divine. It will be the perfect moment for me and my allies to get what we need. I can promise you that. But we need everyone at this Ball. Especially Remus.” Her eyes brightened as she caught on immediately on what he meant.

“And it would be far too easy to ignore the invitation from the Tevinter’s favourite social pariah.” She guessed and Dorian nodded in agreement.

“Not so easy to ignore your respectable sister-in-law”

“And your allies? Who are they?” She asked suspiciously.

“Oh, just some old friends.”

***

 _For Mythal’s sake… Maker’s sake? Oh, to Hakkon with it? Whatever, just, don’t budge, please, don’t budge!_ Fenriel thought to himself while lowering himself slowly onto the ancient windowsill. Cursing became rather troublesome lately with all the elven gods turning out to be ancient mages… and the damn Dread Wolf himself turning out to be Solas. It wasn’t like he was ready to start cursing like an andrastian, so what was left? Avaar gods? Dwarven paragons? Frazzlin, dadgummit?

He let out a relieved sigh, when the ancient stone stayed in one piece after he stood on it. He made a cautious move to the right and brought his prosthetic arm towards the window. The closing mechanism gave way in a matter of seconds. The arm was a piece of art, made for him in a crazy collaboration between Dagna and Bianca. It could cut, throw bolts, replace a magical staff or stop a coming blade. It was also crazily comfortable while drinking ale, but hey, it was a dwarven design, wasn’t it? He knew he was probably acting silly, skulking in shadows like a cat burglar. But for the last month he was travelling in dust to the Tevene capitol trying to avoid attention. And once he arrived at the glorious house Pavus, dirty and sweaty beyond all recognition and saw an easy path up the wall... He just couldn’t help himself. Maybe he spent too much time around Sera after all.

The elf went through the corridors, silent like a ghost and after two more turns, he felt an urge to laugh. All these stories about how dangerous the Tevinter was supposed to be and here he was. An one armed elf bustling through the Magister’s mansion as if it was a public library in Val Royeaux. A swooshing sound was the only thing that alerted him that he stepped right into a glyph. He made a quick jump back. It didn’t helped him much, when a solid block of ice has frozen him in place.

“Oh… frazzlin, dadgummit” he murmured and winced internally. That certainly didn’t have the same right sound as “Dread Wolf take it”… He tried to break free, but the ice was holding steady and with his hands completely unmovable it was all but impossible to spell his way out of the trap. A rookie mistake!

Soon, he heard quick steps and a shadowed figure of a Magister appeared, magic staff alive with power in his hands and an elven woman just behind him. Resigned Fenriel steadied his face in one of an unimpressed impatience.

“I expected a warmer welcome, you know” the elf said loudly when the mage came closer.

“You are aware that things like doors exists, do you? Especially when you’re actually invited.” Dorian deadpanned while taping his fingers on his crossed arms, but his eyes were bright and smiling. The ex-Inquisitor drank in the sight of the black hair, much longer than he remembered, flanking the handsome face and the corners of his lips went upward.

“I wanted to make sure you’re guarding yourself properly, _vhenan_ ” the elf said rolling his eyes. The elven woman behind Dorian looked confusedly between the two of them, but stayed silent.

“And? Did I past your test?” Dorian asked, mockingly gesturing with one hand towards the block of ice.

“I did get inside, didn’t I?” Fenriel answered and rose his head in challenge.

“Yes. And you’re making a really nice ice statue _amatus_ , very lifelike indeed” the mage snickered.

“Ah, yes, this. By the way, not that my toes are starting to glaciate… but would you mind?” Fenriel asked nudging his head towards the ice.

“Would I? It’s not every day, when I have you all bond up and unmoving…” Dorian purred bringing his face closer to Fenriel’s.

“Well, when you put it that way. Cold never bothered me much anyway.” The elf twitched his ears twice. The Magister came closer..

“Apparently” Dorian mocked catching the woollen scarf between his fingers.

The elven woman behind him coughed rather intently. Fenriel rolled his eyes.

“I honestly hoped we left that kind of interruption behind once the Inquisition disbanded. So, lover mine, would you mind being all decent and hospitable now?” The ex-Inquisitor said, and the unknown woman eyes went wide with sudden realisation. She looked straight at Fenriel and blushed deeply. 

“Alright, alright, give a man a chance to dream a little” The mage waved his hands in a short gesture. With a loud crack the ice shattered and fell to the floor. In the same moment Fenriel made a swift jump to Dorian. The taller man staggered backward, when the elf wrapped himself around him and hanged on him like a squirrel on his favourite tree branch. Instinctively Dorian wrapped his own arms around the smaller man to keep him in place and then all coherent thought was expunged from his mind as he kissed his _amatus_ for the first time in six months. Once they separated Fenriel lowered himself back to the floor, but left his hands encircling Dorian’s neck and they stayed like that, goofy smiles on their faces, the staff forgotten on the floor.

“Well, hello _vhenan_ ” Fenriel chuckled finally.

“Hello, _amatus”_ Dorian purred in response and then they both realised with some embarrassment that the elven secretary was still there. Looking at them with an impassive face, but her eyes were crinkling in apparent amusement.

“Ah, yes.” he coughed “Fenriel, meet Nadia, the most patient and resourceful secretary in Minrathous.” Dorian introduced her and the elf looked closer at the woman. She was short and kept her figure straight as a steel rod. Her long, blond hairs were elegantly braided and her sharp features were underlined with a subtle make-up. Under his gaze she turned her eyes shyly to the ground.

“Nadia, meet…” Dorian started and hesitated a second. How do you introduce a former leader of a world changing organisation, who doesn’t officially retain any titles? “Fenriel Lavellan, my…”

“If you’ll say friend you’ll be the one stuck in ice this time” Lavellan said darkly and measured the mage with a steady glance.

“I was intending to go for ‘fiancée’, you know” Dorian said feigning indignation. Mariel shot both of them an amused glance and bowed deeply towards Lavellan.

“Your Worship, it’s an honour.” she said in a pleasant tone.

“Serah” Fenriel responded, slightly bowing himself. “I do believe that just ‘Fenriel’ would be enough, I’m just a an elf living his life currently” he added with a smile.

“As you wish, Your... Fenriel” She responded. Dorian turned towards her, surprised at her mistake.

“So, should we get to the matter at hand? All the plotting and stealing won’t do itself.” The Magister said with a mischievous smile and they went deeper into the mansion.


	2. The Guests of Honour

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hawke, Fenris and Varric arrive in Minrathous and plans and schemes are shared over some ale.

“Catch this slave!”

Fenriel broke into a run. _And to think that this day started so nice_.

It did start nice. He woke up in Dorian’s arms for once, which was a commodity unknown to him for far too long. They had teased themselves mercilessly while the already unbearably hot air had poured through the open window. The dust was swirling in the light and Dorian’s darker skin had looked so in place, so well suited to the exotic chambers… Fenriel jumped right when a fireball smouldered a nearby vegetable shop. He sprinted forward, towards the docks. He can lose them there, can’t he?

So, where was he? Oh, yes, darker skin, exotic chambers. One thing led to another and soon the morning got even better.

A clamour of metal breastplates alerted him that his pursuers were still close. Fenriel shot a look backwards only to curse loudly as the unremorseful north sun fell into his eyes. Trying to blink away the afterimages he picked up the speed. Can’t a man even daydream a little in this city?

Back to the good stuff: with Dorian still mussed from the sleep and for once feeling comfortable with the temperature of the room Lavellan couldn’t find it in himself to mind the hot climate. The small setback of not having second hand to... manoeuvre was disappointing, but still.

In the present time his sprint made him drenched in sweat, the sticky, salty wetness falling into his eyes. Also: it brought him to a fish smelling dead end. Not good. A cat complained loudly when Fenriel quickly jumped upon the empty crates to reach the end of the wall. His prosthesis came in handy in moments like this, as he easily grabbed the top of the ancient wall to bring himself up. He smiled when a stream of what certainly sounded like Tevene curses reached him from the heavy armoured guards. _Good luck with the climbing in all this rusty junk, gentlemen._

The wall led him straight to the infinite maze of golden, orange and ochre roofs that made up Minrathous. With confident steps he turned towards the sea. All these adventures with Sera were paying off, as he easily navigated his way across the sea of sun-warmed tiles.

Never mind the setbacks. Loving Dorian in between the silken sheets and golden sun was both new and familiar. The longer hair, the brightness of the sun and the ever present warmth contended in the slow moments of the morning with old memories of when they could have that whenever they wished. The warm presence at the reach of an arm, no matter how much snow gathered on the balcony.

Then unfortunately Nadia had to come in, shoot them unimpressed glance and dragged Dorian to a Very Important Meeting. Not that that it didn’t happened in Skyhold just as often. It just wasn’t Dorian who was usually dragged away by the responsibilities. His partner did try to warn him about wandering Minrathous alone one more time, but he stopped at Lavellan’s scorching gaze and then he was gone. With a beautiful day up ahead and no Dorian in sight the elf decided to take a look around the city. To finally see the legendary capitol for himself.

Fenriel took a big leap and reached out for the edge of the higher building. A loud crack and the tiles under his feet shattered. He yelped, happy that he was already hanging onto the edge while his legs dangled above a hole in the roof.

“Don’t you think you’ll get away, slave!” an angry voice sounded from the other end of the roof.

_It seems that the seller is a bit more persistent than his employees._ As quickly as he could he dangled himself left and right while the mage did his best to actually hit him and not all the innocent tiles and bricks around him. He pulled himself up and ran.

He actually was cautious and didn’t just ignore all the worried looks Dorian always gave him when he mentioned coming to Tevinter! He left the Dalish looking leathers and scarves back at the mansion and changed into a non descriptive tunic before he went to see the sights. Just one more invisible elf minding his own business. Alright, maybe most of the elves weren’t going through the city looking left and right in amazement at the city that was so much bigger, so much older, so much more than he ever dreamt. There was no forgetting about the blood and misery that built this place, but above it all, or maybe through this the marble stairs, the proud columns and the tall palm trees shone even brighter.

Running he saw he was closing to a wide gap between the buildings. He looked back. He saw that his pursuer slowly, but stubbornly slided through the ceramic roof. Fenriel took a deep breath and jumped. He felt the adrenaline rush as his feet left the stone cornice. He hit the tiles on the other side hard. The broken tiles fell down with a clatter and he with them as he was rolling down the roof uncontrollably. Breathing heavily and trying to spat the dust out of his mouth he brought himself up and saw the slaver stopping at the last possible moment on the other roof. The other man yelled at him loudly, but feeling the laughter bubbling up from deep down in his belly Fenriel just waved at him and slowly got up.

So then he was, admiring the city and not trying to make trouble for anyone. But then there was this pack of street rats, two apples, a rotten tomato, a yelling, red faced slaver and well... things happened. Things that somehow involved him being chased down by a mage slaver and his couple of guards.

But all that being behind him it was time to get back to the mansion. He wouldn’t mind a bath after thoroughly dusting half the roofs in Minrathous. At the other end of the roof he saw treetops rising between the roofs. Hoping that this was a park he passed on his way through the city he quickly lowered himself between the trees. He looked around and saw that he was standing in the middle of thick and well preserved garden, full of this ridiculously big, colourful exotic flowers streaming down from every surface like scented streams.

“Well, well, well, and what do we have here?” he heard a melodious voice and in the same second he felt ice creeping up his legs. _Not this again._ He thought to himself and with a short move of his prosthetic arm he shattered the coming spell. With another wave a cage of electrostatic energy surrounded him, the lighting ready for his next move and he looked for the person who spotted him. She walked out from behind the marble fountain, calm and regal in her deep blue dress.

“And a mage too! Oh, that should be fun!” she said with a lot of good humour in her voice, as she stood in front of him, a white, fierce light coming from her hand, ready to strike. She was magnificent, that much he had to admit. Middle length blond curls were encircling a statue like face with high cheekbones and lips painted a deep red. Her blue eyes were shining brightly and her dress was full of pearls and crow’s feathers. _A Magister maybe?_ Fenriel guessed and tried to come up with a good excuse to why in the Void he just ended up in her garden. Dusty, dirty and in a tunic that could do without dragging it through the shattered tiles. Outside of course of _‘You know, couple of slavers were chasing me so I decided to hide here’._

“I know it seems very tempting, but please, do not start this fight?” Fenriel asked in his best diplomatic tone. Not that Josie would ever be happy with his best diplomatic tone. The woman in front of him smiled mischievously.

“I generally try to avoid temptation unless I can't resist it, and you are, well, quite inviting.” She said, narrowing her eyes and taking a more battle ready pose. Lavellan shifted his weight on his back leg and gathered his energy. She wanted a fight? Oh, he will give her a fight she’ll remember for a long time. Strong magic or not, Anchor or not, he wasn’t going to make it easy for anyone. The ever present bird calls were the only sound to hear for a time, as they stared at each other, gathering energy in their auras and looking for a weak spot. Fenriel could feel how the familiar feeling was taking over him, not this simple ‘run and avoid problems’ that took him running from the slavers, but an instinct that get him through Corypheus, his archdemon, dragons and every other single thing that Thedas decided to throw at him. One Tevinter Magister more won’t make him that big of a difference. Feeling the calm wash over him he stared down his opponent and right at this moment the woman brought one of her hand flat against her forehead.

That made a loud splashing sound and she started to chuckle to herself. Utterly confused Fenriel straighten up a bit. Finally the woman overcame her own laughter and keeping her hands up in a universal sign of peace came closer to him.

“Magister Maevaris Tilani at your service, Your Worship. Dorian mentioned you were in town. I would have realised sooner, if not for the... well, I’m pretty sure you know yourself that you look more like a brick maker then an Inquisitor. A brick maker that just got into a pub brawl actually.” She said, the laugh still in her voice and bowed slightly to him. Maevaris. Of course! Lavellan shook his head in surprise, but let go of his stance and smiled himself.

“Fenriel Lavellan, at your service, my lady.” He said bowing himself and smiled to himself thinking about the face Dorian will make when he’ll hear about this. “Thank you for all your work within the Imperium during the problems with the Venatori”

“Oh, don’t thank me; I wanted to get rid of them long ago. I was happy that the Inquisition saw it the same way.” Maevaris responded easily and confidently took him by arm and directed him towards the villa visible in the distance.

“Politics aside, now that you’re here I have to perform my sacrosanct responsibility of a best friend and tell you all the ignominious things about Dorian I know. Come, let’s us talk”

***

“My, my, I think you have to run into Mae more often, _amatus_.” Dorian’s voice greeted him just behind the entrance to the villa, Nadia standing behind his back. Lavellan was back from his unfortunate trip to the town and really charming, however unplanned, visit to magister Tilani.

“What? How do you... never mind.” Fenriel asked. The sudden roof and garden adventure left him dressed by Mae herself. Seeing the appreciative look that Dorian gave him from the other side of the hall it was quite obvious just how his lover knew where he was.

“Serah” the elf acknowledged the secretary with a nod, Nadia returned his greeting with her own dignified curtsy, but there was no hiding the blush that crept up her cheeks.

“But it does raise a question, how did she manage to do in one afternoon what I failed to accomplish for all those years?” The Magister continued in over dramatic voice. His moustache went up in a smile when Fenriel came closer and casually encircled Dorian’s waist with his arms.

“And what could that possibly be, my dear?” the elf raised an eyebrow.

“You loosed the scarf.” Dorian returned the embrace eagerly.

“I love this scarf!” Fenriel protested.

“It’s _old_. It was burned, bloodied and dusted. I’m pretty sure it went through the Void as well!” the amount of passion in his arguments made the mage raise his hands in wide gesticulation. The ex-Inquisitor was pretty sure that it was a smirk that Nadia tried hard to hide behind her ever present wooden tablet.

“It doesn’t make it any less comfortable, you know?” the elf complained.

“Maker help me!” Dorian theatrically raised his eyes towards the skies.

Before Fenriel could think about another quip he saw that there was something anxious about Dorian. A well-hidden nervousness that he didn’t saw since...

“Dorian. What happened when I was out?” The simple question made the Magister look down suddenly.

“Some of our guests arrived. Viscount Tethras with the Champion of Kirwall” Nadia explained simply before Dorian found his voice.

“And they brought the Little Wolf with them.” Fenriel finished.

“The invitation did say so” The Magister shrugged his shoulders helplessly “Besides. It may be fun. Just like the old times.”

Fenriel shot him an unimpressed gaze. _Good, old times of getting disembowelled in the middle of the yard._ _And yet, it will be really good to see her._

“Right. I’ll go and say hi to Hawke, you’re free later?”

“Am I free later?” Dorian bounced the question back to Nadia.

“Beside the whole having a ball for all powerful and mighty of the whole Imperium tomorrow? Of course, my lord” she answered without batting an eye. The Magister winced.

“I guess it means that I will be a lucky bastard if I’ll get away before dawn.”

“Well. _Try._ ” Fenriel stole a quick kiss for a goodbye and made his way up to the guest rooms.

Before Hawke’s door he hesitated for a second. It was hard for him to quantify his relationship with Hawke. Even before he left the woods for the first time she was already a legend both between the human traders and the Dalish. The heroine chosen by the dragon. He was a skinny teenager on his first trip to town when she was already a Champion. A highborn noble, a powerfull mage, living between the luxuries, walking with the powers of his little world of the Free Marches.

He never imagined that if, and when, he’ll meet her for the first time it will be on the wind swiped battlements of his own stronghold. That she will look with her piercing, blue gaze beyond him. See the banners dancing wildly, the soldiers reading for battle that no one could hope to win, the nobles mingling with spies. And then she’ll look back at him and in her eyes there will be something that he saw in no other - understanding.

With his failures at the Council, when the camaraderie and the glory faded away this understanding was what pulled him through many dark months. Quickly her letters became a lifeline. A beacon of hope made of answered questions that none else dared to answer.

That also meant that she knew more about him than Fenriel cared to admit.

He knocked.

After a moment Fenris opened the door. The awkward silence stretched while Fenriel complanated the fact that they couldn’t look less compatible even if they tried. Little Wolf’s skin was healthily darkened with the Sun; Fenriel’s was simply burned red. The white of the warrior’s hair went together in grey scale duet with his whole greyish apparel. Mae dressed the ex-Inquisitor in rich, silky green, with golden finishes. Fenris wasn’t apparently leaving his huge broadsword alone even for a moment. Fenriel wasn’t even carrying a staff.

“Hello, serah Fenris.” The ex-Inquisitor broke the silence. Fenris acknowledged his greetings with a short nod and turned back.

“Hawke! The _ex_ -Inquisitor is looking for you.” The Little Wolf shouted. _Touché._

“Coming, coming!” Hawke appeared in the door wearing a light, linen shirt over riding trousers far too warm for the climate of Tevinter.

“Hawke!” Fenriel said and made a step forward. Not really thinking about it he gathered her small figure in a bear hug. She squeezed tight for a second and then Fenriel’s brain caught up with his actions. Awkwardly he tapped Hawke on the shoulders twice and retreated.

“Fenriel. It is good to see you” she beamed at him. Feeling Fenris’s gaze upon them Fenriel shuffled his feet.

“I should let you two settle in, we can talk later”

“Oh, nonsense. Let’s walk” Hawke left the chamber with confident stride. Apparently knowing her well enough not to say anything Fenris closed the door behind her. Without much thought Lavellan led them in the direction where he was almost sure were the gardens.

“How was your trip?” Fenriel asked not sure what to say. It was strange: to walk beside her, knowing that he bared his soul to her in his letters. Still, writing and talking were two very separate things apparently.

“Do you mean the part that we were chasing down the assassins trying to kill _you_ , or just the joys of the Tevene winter?” She shot him a crooked smile.

“Don’t even start. I’ll take the assassins over this weather any time. _Any_ time.” _Right, I can do that. Small talk._ Hawke snorted.

“You know what annoys me most? That Fenris is actually _enjoying_ this sun. Northern bastard.”

“Don’t tell me! I think I may have finally found a shred of sympathy for Dorian’s constant complaining about how cold Skyhold is.” Fenriel saw that Hawke’s face suddenly grew thoughtful. A moment of silence passed between them, much more loaded than any words.

“It can’t be easy for Fenris, coming back to Tevinter.” He remarked.

“No, it isn’t. Not that he would ever admit such a thing.” She shook her head.

“What about you? I can’t imagine many Dalish are ever going this far North?” Hawke redirected the subject.

Fenriel scratched his head guiltily.

“I imagine not. Awkward to admit it, but honestly, I always rather wanted to see it. The oldest Imperium in Thedas that’s still standing! Just think, Minrathous was already here, not long after Arlathan fell!”

“And priding itself on destroying it?” she snickered.

“We both know that part isn’t exactly true. Considering what we _do_ know about elven history I guess we could say that Tevinter really is the next best thing. They really caught up on that whole blood magic and god complex thing, you know?”

“That’s a cheery thought.” She summed up. They walked in silence for a moment.

“Anyway, how are you?” Hawke asked and her tone stated quite clearly that she wasn’t going to be satisfied with _‘thanks, I’m fine’_.

“Good. Really, really good. It seems that leaving Skyhold was exactly what I needed.” The levity in his voice was almost perfect.

“And…?”

Hawke looked at him sideways, her blue eyes assessing.

“And there isn’t much to tell, really. I’m incredibly happy that you decided to come. Between looking for Halward’s killers and the Ball I’m quite certain that all hell will break loose before the end of the week.” The elf continued as they entered a garden in the inner courtyard.

“I didn’t come here for the Ball, _Fenriel_. Aren’t you just a tad more interested in this whole ‘let’s send a bunch of assassins after you’? You could have mentioned that earlier. I wouldn’t chase them all across the Free Marches!” Hawke crossed her arms over her chest. Even with her small for human standards figure she knew how to look intimidating. _Or maybe that’s just me, realising how much bullshit I’m trying to sell._

“Look, Hawke. I know. _I know_ I sounded desperate in the letters I’ve send you. Blame it on too much wine and far too long and lonely nights spent on the literal top of the mountain.” He gave her a soft smile. “Since I got here it’s all different. Heck, since I left Skyhold I’m all better! Just leaving this damned hermitage of mine, tasting the road again! We’ve got some big plans with Dorian for the Ball. You’ll love it; it will be like the old times with all the breaking and entering.”

Hawke narrowed her eyes and her fingers started to slowly tap her arm.

“I thought you were sticking to the politics this time. Mingling with nobility and telling the daring tales of saving the world, what happened to that?” Her voice was laced with suspicion.

“I couldn’t have everyone else have all the fun, could I?” He beamed at her, arms spread wide.

“Funny that. Because there is something else I remember from your letters. You say you’re fine?” the elf cringed internally at the heavy sarcasm.

“Good as new” Fenriel said too quickly.

“Right.”

Almost before he could react a fireball went swirling at his nose. Instinctively he raised the barrier and the projectile halted in the air.

“Hawke!” he yelled in protest.

“Let’s imagine a quest. From good, old times, you know. You enter a dungeon. Two archers approach.” She conjured up deadly thin arrows from wind itself and let them barrage his barrier. The taps were light like lovers kisses in comparison to the raw power she really possessed.

In didn’t change the fact that he already felt the sweat gathering on his forehead.

“Come on, what you’re trying to prove here?” he jumped right to avoid another series of ‘arrows’. He tried to set up an energy barrage, but before he could finish the rune Hawke was already right before him.

“Look! An enemy mage!” A stronger fireball almost knocked him back. “Fun!”

Second fireball. He knelt onto one knee to keep his barrier.

“Just like...”

Third fireball. He could feel how he tapped into the reserves of his reserves.

“...old times.”

Fourth fireball went through his flickering barrier as if it wasn’t even there. He tried to cover his face, but before the flame could reach him it dissipated into thin air.

Breathing heavily Fenriel flopped down onto his back, immensely grateful for the cool grass. _Void take it, I don’t want to get up ever again._

Something blocked his sun and slowly he blinked. _Right._

Hawke was standing above him, her hands on her hips, chin stuck proudly forward.

“If that’s all you’ve got then oh, be still black hearts of Minrathous, the Inquisitor is coming.” He covered his eyes with his hand. The next words came slowly, difficult for him to articulate.

“I know Hawke. But tell me, were you in my place, Fenris asking you for help, assassins trying to get your head, living on reputation alone... Could you just sit idly by?”

There was a moment of silence. Fenriel glimpsed her reaction from between his fingers and saw that Hawke sat down next to him in the grass. She looked at him and there it was again: understanding. Suddenly she punched his shoulder teasingly. He was pretty sure it will bruise.

“I’m pretty sure I would have enough reason in me to listen to my elders, you moron.”

Fenriel chuckled in response. “Yeah, you may have a point. Care for an ale?”

“Do they even have ale here?”

“I’m sure that if we’ll take Varric with ourselves he will sniff it with his dwarven beer sense?”

“I’m sold.”

***

“...and then the Black Divine will arrive. It will be a powerful show, maybe not subtle, but I would take a risk and say that the Lucerni don’t have to concern themselves with subtlety for a while…, my lord?” Nadia interrupted her summary of the Ball plans when she noticed that Dorian’s attention slipped.

The black mahogany and silvery pearl office in which they were going through the latest plans had all but vanished under the piles of letters, maps and lists of supplies. On the top of the table, seemingly forgotten under a lunch tray, lied an old map of a building that most certainly wasn’t the Pavus mansion. Outside of the table what little of the baroque office was still seen was lighted in the eerie, magical light. The Magister conjured it up absentmindedly when their working hours stretched into the evening. Even after all these years working for the mages it sparked a faint flame of jealousy in the usually complacent secretary. She shook her head chasing away the unwanted thought and yearned for another cup of tea. How long exactly were they here already?

Nadia was just about to propose postponing any further work till morning when she noticed where exactly Dorian’s thought went to. The young Magister was leaning his head tiredly on his intertwined fingers, his eyes set firmly on the solitary painting on the wall. From the silvery frames, proudly and grimly, Halward Pavus was looking back at them. A faint sadness came over her when she realised once again why exactly they’re working so late into the night.

“Even dead he seems to find a way to look at me with scorn” Dorian remarked and she felt slightly off balance with how bitter he sounded. Nadia looked at the painting again and surely, Halward’s face was as impassive and stern as every day he walked into the Magisterium. Yet she could see only standing and strength, where Dorian was conjuring up distaste and disappointment. And to be fair, she was probably serving Halward longer than Dorian was ever living in the mansion.

“Is he, my lord?” the scepticism was clear in her voice that the young Magister gave her a wry smile.

“Maybe it’s just me. I don’t think anyone else was capable of raising that much wrath in the old bastard”

“I’m pretty sure as well, that his legitimacy was quite well proved.” She commented with a tone so diplomatic that even after giving it a second thought Dorian wasn’t entirely sure if she was sarcastic, or deadly serious. “But yes, you were quite talented in the matter.” She added and the man raised an eyebrow surprised at the sternness entering her voice.

“Something you want to share with the rest of the class?”

Nadia visibly hesitated a moment.

“I was glad when you came back to Tevinter, before Magister Halward was assassinated. Your open involvement in the Inquisition brought much sh...” she tripped over a word before she continued ”...trouble to the family and heartache to your father.”

“Heartache you say? I think you may have a far too soft heart my dear, I don’t think he could even name such an emotion, never mind actually feel it on someone’s behalf.” Dorian’s smile became mocking and unpleasant, strangely childish in her eyes. She remembered letters reread time after time and the frantic stream of both funds and favours flowing to Skyhold, with Dorian being none the wiser.

“No. I think it is you that doesn’t give him enough credit, my lord.” She spoke quietly, but clearly. Dorian’s eyes set immediately on her.

“You mistake my meaning; I give him plenty of credit.” His voice was steadily rising as he straightened up. “For upholding the ancient architecture of pose and falsehood, for the rigid, disciplined way he would change his every waking hour into the perfect imperialistic dream of maleficars dead for centuries. And of course, for the inhuman effort he was putting, day after day into the careful expunging of what little of flawed emotion remained in him and stopped him from being the perfect Magister.”

Dorian’s nostrils flared as he took a deep breath.

“I gave him enough credit to admit that I, I could never step up and do all these feats. He put so much effort, so much time in all that, in giving me this perfect opportunity of continuing his ever perfect facade, of bringing the _family_ one step closer to the glory. And yes, I give him enough credit that when I had the audacity to just go and be born and listen to _him_ and do as _he_ said and stick to _his_ morals and go, be proud of who I am, of what I can do, the poor, poor, aching and worried father that he was managed to find a way to set everything _bloody_ _straight._ “

The young Magister fumed, now with his back to the painting.

Nadia waited patiently. She knew this indignantly raised chin, the self-righteousness of the eloquent voice, the very same way in which his arms crossed on his chest. After all she was serving as secretary to the second generation of Pavuses now.

“So believe me, I give him plenty of credit, where credit is due.” Dorian finished with emphasis as if he was just sticking a verbal sword into the heart of the matter.

But this time Nadia had an advantage over her Pavus master. She knew something he didn’t.

“Then why are you here?” She asked mercilessly, waving a hand at the stacks of papers. The paper trail of scheming - the essence of a good, old vengeance. He threw his arms outward.

“Because he was supposed to be here!” Dorian yelled, desperation colouring his voice. He deflated and suddenly he looked young. Like a skinny teenager throwing a tantrum from her memories. Hidden behind a column, with her mother warm hand on her shoulder, she would see and wonder: what was this boy lacking to look this miserable when he had everything.

Now she was older, and free to do as she wished. So she took a step closer, put a hand on his shoulder and spoke softly.

“For what’s it worth I really believe he would like that. Even if just to have another chance to make up for his mistakes.”

***

They ended up under the cheerful banner of The Rose and the Snake as the tavern had everything Varric knew and loved about places like these and then some more: wooden tables smelling of ale spilled long time ago and smoke, charming servant girls with brilliant smiles and witty retorts, an Orlesian bard fishing for gossips and news, while performing outrageous songs, decent prices and long opening hours. There was also the matter of company. The Rose and the Snake was one of these very rare places were the society melted into one, happily drunk mess. All were permitted inside and if you weren’t here at least once, you certainly knew nothing about life in Minrathous. Pirate captains met here elegant officials on unofficial businesses, mercenaries came here to spent their hard won money when they felt they deserved something fancy, assassins were stalking their victims, spies mingled with contacts, people of long lost fortunes drunk away their lost glory and the young nobles, knights and mages came to taste the ragged life. And the true salt of this tavern were dwarven merchants and wealthy soporati enjoying their lots in life. Once they went in Fenriel decided that he liked the place immensely - with its too warm walls and too loud halls it brought him a strange sense of relief and familiarity. The colours were too bright, the windows far too open into the hot air, the drinks too watery and fruity, but it still reminded him of the merry walls of Herald’s Rest safely tucked away in Skyhold’s walls.

Still, even in the crowd they made quite a view.

His own _vallaslin_ would make him stand out anywhere in Tevinter, but adding to that Varric with Bianca on his back, Hawke with her pale skin and Fenris dragging grimly just behind her they turned more than one head. 

“...and see, that’s where you come into the plan. While everyone are busy trying to figure what the Champion of Kirkwall can possibly try to plot with the new Divine we’ll make a quick visit to the Templar Dragoons and their archive.” Fenriel explained with a mischievous smile. Varric gave him not entirely convinced look and set his glass back on the table.

“You do realise that I’m a changed man now? Responsible, lawful and so on?” the dwarf asked him.

“Also, why in the Void are we discussing our top secret plans in the middle of a tavern?” Hawke asked crisply.

“Because: it’s a Tevene tavern.” Fenris answered and everyone looked at him in surprise. It was the first words he said since they left the mansion. At the still confused look at Hawke’s face he folded a corner of the carpet with his foot. A bleached glyph of interruption was circling the table.

“Oh. That’s convenient.”

“Right, so now when that’s settled, let’s go back to the part where you’re thinking that sneaking into a Templar stronghold is a good idea.” Varric said, his face set in scepticism.

“It is when it’s mostly _empty_ Templar stronghold. Most of the knights will be out, escorting the Divine to the Ball. After all it is _his_ grand celebration. And we have the full plans of the building and know what we’re looking for. Thanks to our new Divine.” The ex-Inquisitor explained, his eyes shining a bit too cheerfully.

“And the Divine won’t just hand us these documents because...?” Now it was Hawke time to look sceptical.

“He needs to be sure that no one connects the leak with him and the Lucerni. This archive probably holds enough dirt to bring most of the Magisterium down. And the Imperial Chantry needs the Magisterium just as much as they need the Chantry.” Fenris interceded before the other elf could speak. His eyes were dark and shadowed, focused on a non-descriptive point of the wooden table.

“I never knew you had that much interest in politics Fenris” Fenriel commented, his voice curious. The other man’s nostrils flared angrily.

“It wasn’t exactly a _free_ choice.”

The ex-Inquisitor felt a sting of guilt. _Right. Didn’t think that through._ He saw that Hawke’s pale fingers slipped into Fenris’s hand and he turned his gaze away, suddenly embarrassed.

“What’s the proof actually?” Varric asked and Fenriel was glad for the return of the pragmatic problems.

“A transcript from the interrogation of the assassin. One of them was caught alive and the Templars showed up to arrest him, before either Aquinea or Dorian could do anything about it. Officially he quickly died in custody, but Tiberius, that is the Divine Bergoulis now, told us that the documents name his employer, but it was silenced during the last Divine’s administration.” The ex-Inquisitor tapped his tankard thoughtfully.

“Aquinea’s hopes it will be enough, and then, well, hopefully Dorian will be able to leave this in the past as well.”

“I still don’t understand why you and Varric are supposed to have all the fun. Why am I the one stuck on the Ball?” Hawke complained.

“Don’t take it personally Chuckles, but you’re not exactly known for stealth” the dwarf explained and Fenris snorted loudly. Disappointment on Hawke’s face seemed impossible to assuage.

“Then all is set. You, Fenris, Mae and Dorian are attending the Ball, while...” before he could finish the sentence Hawke’s eyes widened suddenly.

“Fenriel!”

He turned just in time to see how the would-be assassin got hit with the Champion’s quick fireball. _Here we go again._ He thought moodily. Varric was already standing, Bianca in his arms. Fenris rose next to Hawke, unsheathed dagger in his hand.

The whole inn erupted in turmoil. The assassin wasn’t alone and Fenriel already spotted two more figures coming quickly towards him. But whoever wanted to kill the ex-Inquisitor wasn’t their only problem. A nearby table turned when the burned assassin stumbled across it. With drinks spilt freely on the floor the pirate looking occupants raised themselves, drunk, unhappy and spoiling for a fight.

The old innkeeper quickly read the room and with practised efficiency started to hide the bottles under the bar. As on queue the fiddlers picked up a tempo.

“Such a shame.” Varric sighed loudly. Two quick bolts from his crossbow kept an over enthusiastic pirate from moving away from his table. With inhuman speed Fenris materialized next to one of the assassins. His enemy was dead before he hit the floor.

“It seemed like a nice place” Hawke agreed and quickly dispatched a burly man swayingly coming closer to Fenris with a good, old wooden chair. The man fell straight onto almost finished game of Wicked Grace. This way a dozen more respectable patrons joined the fray.

“Such a nice evening too.” Fenriel agreed while his prothesis connected with a jaw. A jaw belonging to a most unsatisfied customer. _It does have its uses._ The elf thought with satisfaction when instead of feeling jarring pain in the fist he saw the bigger man stumbling back.

Fenriel tried to focus through a slight fuzziness of the ale he drank. The mix of deadly intentions of the few and the random participants of the fight was quite troublesome. How not to kill anyone uninvolved and stay alive - that was the question.

Surprisingly it wasn’t that different from closing the rifts. Then he had to avoid swords, demons and spells let loose. Now it was fists, tables and an occasional dagger. Easy, peasy.

“Get down!” Hawke’s voice boomed over the crowd and the ex-Inquisitor turned in time to see how Fenris basically disappeared out of the way as she swung a bench on approaching opponents. _They’re fine._ He thought and without thinking took a step back to avoid a tankard flying through the air.

Varric was holding his own as well. Bianca never missed a harmless spot, a chance to pin someone to the wall securely and bloodlessly. _I guess this isn’t his first tavern brawl._ Nearby a group of young mages was still playing dices serenely, a shimmering light of a shield around them.

_Right, but we’re still missing at least one guy._ He spotted him half-hidden behind a turned over table top. He was just raising his hand, a small crossbow in them and with a kick of adrenaline Fenriel reacted instinctively.

He reached out with his mind, to quickly encircle them with impenetrable fold of the Fade. The bolt swooshed menacingly through the air. Varric’s yelp of pain was quick to follow. Fenriel felt himself freezing with panic when he realised what happened. The spell was dependent on the Mark.

A thunderous sound rose in the tavern and the assassin fell dead when Fenris unleashed the lightning. The tavern quieted, everyone suddenly feeling that the fun was over.

Not sure if he wants to know how bad thing were Fenriel turned around.

“Ah, shit.” Varric sputtered wincing. The bolt was deeply lodged in his calf and the dwarf was sitting miserably at the floor. Hawke and Fenris were immediately at his side, dressing the wound and helping him up. In the meantime the ex-Inquisitor just stood awkwardly and looked at the dispersing crowd, trying hard not to think too much.

***

Their walk back to villa was tense. Fenris was helping Varric to hobble along, while Fenriel and Hawke looked around: suspicious of every little shadow.

“Cheer up, guys! See? I’m already getting the hang of it!” the dwarf quipped with a plastered on enthusiasm and while Hawke actually smirked at that Fenriel could only feel a fresh stab of guilt in his gut.

Something dark and heavy, some unnamed feeling suddenly made itself known to him, but still remained out of his grasp. The dark buildings around rose around him like the walls of Skyhold. Skyhold of the last months: lonely, abandoned and purposeless. Too big for its single occupant and the long halls echoing with the smallest of sounds. The long, slow walk up to the mansion was like those never ending weeks after the Mark was taken from him. Taken out of him - for good. Taking the arm with itself for a good measure. The ghost of his left arm tugged at him painfully and the elf barely stopped himself from curling up on the prosthesis.

He shook his head. _That was then. Now I’m here. Now I’m back in the action. I can do this._ He thought stubbornly. He wasn’t much when he crawled from the ashes of the Conclave. A freshly green mage of average power, wasn’t he? And he managed. He stumbled on into unknown world of the politics, demigods and world changing decisions. He came out victorious, powerful and loved, worshiped even.

He could still do it. He had to do it.

_Yes, but at what price?_ Another voice whispered at him. _How much is your pride worth?_

He saw Hawke catching up with him and giving him an assessing look. Quickly he gave her a tired, but hopefully reassuring smile.

“Don’t give me that bullshit, _your Worship_ ” the woman said decidedly “What happened? I saw you in the middle of the spell, and then boom! Varric has a _bloody_ bolt in his leg!”

“I...” the ex-Inquisitor hesitates, a lie at the tip of his tongue. He swallows it looking Hawke in the eye and goes for the truth. “It was a rift spell. It doesn’t work without the Mark. And the Breach.”

“Shit. And what, you forgot that tiny detail?” The comment is well deserved, but it still stings. It happened so quickly, so instinctively. It used to be so easy.

“Yes! I didn’t exactly have much bolt practice lately!” he answers, his voice sounding strange in his own ears.

“Maker’s ass, that’s it. We’re coming back to the mansion and then I’ll have a long, long talk with that plotting lover of yours. Maybe he will talk some sense into you” Hawke’s decide and a sudden panic grips Fenriel’s guts. It’s not like he lied to Dorian about the long months in Skyhold. He just purposefully avoided worrying him needlessly.

“No! You can’t!” he protests.

“Just watch me” Hawke’s eyes even in the dark are hard and stubborn.

“It’s not your secret to tell” he pleads with her.

“It became my secret to tell, when Varric was shot!”

“I beg you, Hawke, trust me. I know what I’m doing. It was just a mistake” he takes on a desperate note, but he saw that it has as much effect as talking to a hurricane to just please, stop throw trees around.

“Fine! I’ll tell him myself. I promise, just, let me talk to him.” he added finally with s strange mixture of feelings. He hoped to the Void and back that somehow he won’t have to make good on this particular promise. But he had no intention of breaking it either.

“Alright. But you’ll tell him. Tonight: before the mission.” She scoffs. They walk in silence for a long while.

“And Fenriel?” Hawke looks him straight in the eye.

“Yes?”

“Get your shit together”

***

Back at the mansion they quickly shared the news with Dorian. They fetched a medic and it was quickly obvious that the stealth mission was a bust. They were officially lacking a second person for the team, and Hawke and Dorian were necessary at the Ball.

“Maybe Mae could go with you? Or maybe she knows someone with the right skill set?” Dorian wondered, pinching the bridge of his nose with his fingers. How was it possible that his meticulously planned intrigue was falling apart even before it really started?

“Fenris, a word?” Varric suddenly said and everyone looked on surprised as the Little Wolf shrugged his shoulders, but came out of the room with the dwarf nevertheless.

Dorian looked around. Hawke was pacing the length of the room restlessly. Nadia sat behind her, skin pale with lack of sleep. Fenriel was fiddling mindlessly with the straps of his prosthesis. He could feel the strain himself, the heaviness of his eyelids fighting at every given moment with the stress inside him. An urgency of thoughts of how to make it work.

_We need sleep._ He thought reasonably. Sleep, and then they can figure it out in the morning. Void, between the five of them they’ve done pretty much anything that anyone could imagine. They could handle one Ball and one breaking-and-entering at the same time.

Then the door behind which Fenris and Varric disappeared creaked open. The Little Wolf approached them silent and wary. He ignored Dorian entirely and looked with nothing but suspicion at Fenriel.

“I will accompany you on the mission instead of Varric.” He said in a brisk tone. Before anyone reacted he turned on his heel and vanished into the long corridor. In the silence that fell after this statement Fenriel could almost pick up the cooks throwing the bread into the oven two floors down from them.

“What? Fenris!” Hawke stopped dead in her track and followed the elf with a quizzical expression on her face.

That just left Dorian, Fenriel and Nadia in the room. The mage smoothed out his moustache, exhaustion fighting on his face with bewilderment. “I guess... that solves things?” He added with uncertainty.

“Kinda? I’m just not sure if I’m worried now more, or less than, when Varric get shot.” The ex-Inquisitor summed up.

***

Once they were up in the Master bedroom Dorian felt how another kind of silence wrapped him up. This one was sweeter, calmer - almost _domestic_. Ridiculous. Dorian Pavus was a lot of things, but none of them were being _domestic._ The doors to the balcony were wide open, a slight breeze from the sea moved the curtains and the warm air kissed his bare chest as he stripped down for sleep. Moonlight painted wide stripes of silver over the waves, outshining any star that would dare to blink in its presence. Leaning on the doorframe, his silhouette shadowy in the scanty light was Fenriel; slowly untying the straps of his prosthesis.

“Here.” Dorian said softly and quickly got rid of the ties. The elf bit his lower lip nervously and looked down suddenly and the mage cursed internally. It was all... so new. Even if the Halamshiral affair was almost a half year ago they parted ways quickly after. And no amount of crystal communication could help him learn how to deal with this. One moment Fenriel was running around, joking and opening up cans with his prosthesis. Second later, he was recoiling from touch like something wild and hurt. And Dorian wanted, so desperately to reach out, to somehow sooth him... But there was nothing in his life of high academic standards that taught him how to do so.

“Sorry, I just, I need to...” Fenriel stumbled over words, catching the stump of his arm with his right hand. He seemed to fight some internal struggle.

“You don’t have to explain” Dorian blurted out. “That’s it, if you don’t want to. I’m all ears if you want to talk.”

_Great, now you’re mumbling. Felix would be so proud of you, you emotional equivalent of a pink, fairy armadillo._

Armadillo was actually Fenriel’s comparison. He saw the desert liking, armoured, cute mammal in a menagerie in Orlais once and said instantly that it reminds him of Dorian. The Magister would be indignant if he didn’t feel so damnably touched at the moment.

Whatever he did it made the elf smirk. There was a shadow there, but, Void, they were all exhausted after the evening they just had.

“Don’t worry about it. I’m fine, really.” His lover relaxed his stance.

This damned evening. Unsure of what needed to be done, and crowded with his own thoughts Dorian circled his arms around his _amatus_ waist and brought him closer.

“What about you?” Fenriel spoke softly and leaned into him, the tangible, lean body in the Magisters arms grounding him. “You looked exhausted when we came”

And yes, he did probably look a bit haggard when they came. He didn’t even yet stewed from his... _discussion_ with Nadia. Then they brought limping Varric with themselves, complications and carefully laid plans falling apart at the seams. The Ball was tomorrow now, all the preparations ready, but what was sure about it anyway? _Make the plan, execute the plan, prepare to throw the plan out the window._ A slogan that Mae loved ringed in his head and he would smile, if not for his father’s ghost looking at him disapprovingly. For him being unprepared for anything wasn’t being prepared at all. But how can you prepare for the moment you were preparing for months? Your whole life in a way? What else can you do, these last days, which you haven’t done weeks ago? How can you even dream of catching up to your own expectations of last year?

Running away from his own thoughts he nuzzled into Fenriel’s neck. Whatever it was in his movement, restlessness or a hinge of desperation made the elf turn around in his arms.

“Dorian.” His name sounded differently in his lover’s voice. A call in the dark, back to reality. He looked up, to look his _amatus_ in the eye and what a figure he had to cut now. Sleep deprived, stressed and haunted by the old ghosts. The deep shadows underneath his eyes had to be made even deeper by the moonlight. The great Magister of Minrathous. Looking as if he couldn’t sleep through the night properly.

Strangely it calmed him to see that Fenriel wasn’t looking much better. There was a fragile, opalescent quality to his skin now, his eyes made pale in this light. He looked real and authentic. A series of emotions went through this face: uncertainty, longing, silent determination.

“I’m not sure if it will work” Dorian admitted quietly. “I’m not even sure why am I doing it anymore. Or if it’s worth it.”

“How so?”

“It seems as if it all: the Ball, the reforms, the Lucerni were all good things, made for entirely wrong reasons. Here I am, the prodigal son, coming back to shake the Imperium to its roots. Trying to prove my worth to the dead.” He shook his head.

“And all the while we could be lazing our asses off in Halamshiral.” The elf added helpfully.

“Exactly! Nothing, but wine, and chocolate truffles. All the best for the saviours of Thedas.”

“And all would be good with the world. At least for three days. Then we would get stir crazy.”

“Or knowing _your_ luck a new tunnel to Blight infested Deep Roads would be found in the wine cellar before the end of the week.” Dorian added vehemently.

“You’re probably right. But only if you add Tevinter marching onto Orlais border at the same time.”

They stayed silent, enjoying the moment of companionship.

“And then, the new crisis averted, you would ask yourself what else remains to be done. And you’d be back in Tevinter. Trying to make it right.” The ex-Inquisitor said softly, his right hand reaching out to lie on Dorian’s high cheekbone. The mage’s breath hitched on intake. “Because that’s what you are. You made being true to yourself your rebellion. And now you simply can’t stop. But here” The elf tapped the crystal lying on his chest. “Here is the promise that you won’t have to do that alone.”

Sometimes Fenriel would just do that. He would make a simplest, most innocent gesture: took his face in his hands, his long fingers slowly stroking his cheek as the elf looks up at him with his eyes open wide. Or he would take his bullshit with an eyebrow raised in amusement, waiting for the right moment to speak. He would listen to him with awe in his face when he plunged into yet another fascinating tome that he found lately and no matter how much Dorian would try, he couldn’t find a sign of disinterest in his eyes. Sometimes he would disapprovingly crinkle the _vallaslin_ on his forehead when he crossed the line.

All that came back to one thing. To moments exactly like this one: Fenriel looked at him, really _looked._ And those knowing eyes, they took it all in: the good, the bad and the ugly. The parts of him that Dorian doesn’t yet even have a name for. Fenriel saw it all and smiled, contented with what he saw.

He felt his heart ache, full to bursting with something he haven’t dared to reach for. That’s the kind of unconditional acceptance that he’s still bewildered to simply take in. That maybe he’s not yet quite ready to offer to himself, or anyone else.

But still, being at the receiving end of it Dorian’s mind goes suddenly quiet. It’s the most serene feeling he ever knew.

Speechless he brought their mouths in a kiss. It was sweet with the certainty of the thought that he can have this. He will always have this.

They take their time. But then, Fenriel stops suddenly, leaning back. There was a strange, unusual fragility on the elf’s face.

“ _Vhenan_ , I need to...” The ex-Inquisitor bit his upper lip nervously. “I need to tell you something.”

“What is it, _amatus_?” An anxious feeling tugs at Dorian’s heart. He hadn’t seen this broken look in his lovers eyes since the news of clan Lavellan came. Some of his mood had to show up on his face, because Fenriel almost opened up his lips to speak and then retreated. His face settled into stark determination.

“We’re gonna be alright.” Fenriel said with finality in his voice.


	3. The Ball Begins

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Our two teams go their seperate ways and the time comes to welcome all the guests at the Ball.

_What an unusual gathering of people it will be._ Fenriel thought to himself when he walked down to the vestibule of the Pavus’s mansion. He was already wearing light armour made with simple leather, painted in shades of grey to better conceal him in the shadows. His red hairs made a striking contrast to the deep hood lying loosely on his shoulders. He wasn’t caring a staff, but the crystal in his prosthesis was glowing with a steady, pearly light and a long, flat dagger at his side felt rather reassuring. He saw that Hawke was already at the bottom of the spectacular stairway. She was magnificent in her simplicity. Her fiery red dress showed her shoulders and bare back, with the exception of a multiple ribbons keeping everything in place. In between her shoulder blades a dark metal ornament was depicting the heraldic hawk. Her long black hair was gathered together in a simple braid, decorated with a red ribbon. Still, her long neck holding her head high and proudly made it entirely meaningless if she was in a ball gown or bloodied armour – she was still the Champion.

“Champion” the elf greeted her with a small nod and a smile once he reached her. Hawke looked up at him and gave him a searching look.

“Fenriel” she said “I see that you’re still going through with your idiotic plans. I hope you haven’t forgotten what we talked about yesterday” She added darkly.

“I did as I promised. And yes, I’m still going” he hoped his face didn’t betray him. Lying to the Champion of Kirkwall straight in the face wasn’t something he planned for today. Or any day really. The guilt churned low in his stomach. He _knew_ it wasn’t right. But then, when he came into the room last night, all but ready to explain everything to Dorian when a knot on his prosthesis came stuck. Such a small thing. He tugged and tugged at it, strange desperation settling in, as if he could do that one thing, he could do everything else and... Dorian stopped him and untangled the damned thing himself. And suddenly Fenriel knew that if he would start then there will be no return. He would just break apart right there and then no control over how much to tell, how much to reveal. And to reveal the true extent of his loss, of what Solas took with the Anchor, with the arm… That was unthinkable.

A huff from the other side brought him back to reality. _Ah, yes, his trusted teammate for the evening._ He thought to himself seeing Fenris standing next to Hawke, partially concealed by the vase at the base of the staircase. _Always next to Hawke._ Fenriel sighed inwardly, not really sure what moved him to such a reflection.

“Serah Fenris” the elf greeted Fenris with just a touch of too much politeness in his voice.

“Inquisitor” the Little Wolf responded, but the title had a note of mockery in his voice.

Fenris was also ready and prepared for their little adventure, clothed in grey armour made of thick leather, spikes decorating the edge of it on his shoulders. A well-loved piece of red cloth was circling his wrist, the only speck of colour on the warrior between the dark colours of his armour, his white hair and ashen skin. Before the silence could stretch into awkwardness a loud, booming voice sounded through the air.

“Chuckles! Elf! Red! So good to see you all set and prepared, I sense one hell of a story in the air tonight” Varric said coming up from one of the corridors and joining them next to the staircase. He was still limping mightily, but a proper cast made wonders for his mobility. Everyone turned to welcome the dwarf, on the ball or not, in his favourite red tunic. The hairs on his chest were apparently groomed especially for the occasion.

“I’m not sure, if you smelling a story is a good omen for us all, Varric” Fenriel noticed with a crooked smile.

“Surprisingly enough, I find myself agreeing with the Inquisitor on that” Fenris added and Varric send them all a one-eyed wink.

“Oh, come on, it will be like good old times” he said cheerfully and Hawke started to count on her fingers while saying.

“Thieving, fighting, killing…”

“..Scheming, lying, plotting…” Fenriel added.

“…getting stabbed, shot, poisoned…” Fenris murmured.

“…drinking, travelling and adventuring?” Varric tried to turn the tide.

“Doesn’t it all sounds marvellous indeed?” a pearly voice joined in. It was Maevaris, who just came in through the main doors, the flock of servants avoiding her by inches as they hurried inside with arms full of food and bottles. The Magister looked resplendent in a long gown made with black velvet decorated with a delicate flower pattern. The Lucerni all agreed on wearing black as their colour during the ball for reasons they told _“become obvious in proper time”_. The velvet was shining in the magic light of the lamps decorating the hall. The blonde woman’s neck was collared by black, crow feathers and her look was finished with long, white gloves and shining pearls in her ears and on her neck. She flowed to them in a few graceful steps and bent to put warm kisses on both Varric’s cheeks.

“You look marvellous, my dear” Varric said amiably and she smiled brilliantly.

“Was there any doubt about it?” she teased him and turned to the others.

“Champion, you look taller than I imagined” she said in greeting to Hawke.

“Well, thank you, your glitterness” the Champion responded raising one eyebrow.

“Serah Fenris” Maevaris nodded politely to Little Wolf. The elf shot her a long, dark look and remained silent.

Maevaris turned to the other elf and smiled widely.

“Fenriel, I’m glad that I caught you before you disappeared in the shadows” she greeted him.

“Oh? I’m always happy to see you Mae, but what’s so gladdening about meeting me here?” he asked.

“I wanted to see your face once you’ll see our dear magister Pavus. I was fusing over his choice of wardrobe for the last month” she answered pleasantly and apparently having an impeccable sense of timing Dorian chose this exact moment to appear the top of the stairways. Fenriel looked up and decided that if that’s what fusing meant then he was all for it. Even if it meant that Dorian will again shush him out of the room when Fenriel was being far too disruptive to the delicate process of the ball grooming.

His long, crow black hair was flowing down his tanned face on one side. His whole clothing was black, decorated with gold. A wide collar, finished with a delicate ornament hafted in a shining thread, was circling his neck asymmetrically and flowing down into a long tunic. The back of it was fitted perfectly to the strong line of Dorian’s back and the ends of it were flopping freely around his knees. One of his shoulders was covered with a soft silk, but the other arm was bare. As ridiculous as the fashion seemed in the breeze halls of Skyhold Fenriel had to admit that he found a new appreciation for it now as he could see Dorian’s muscles moving under the bronze skin. The rest of the arm was hardly bare as a multitude of golden rings and chains were ringing on it. Dorian moved in it all as naturally as a black cat on a rooftop. His eyes found Fenriel’s and he smiled mischievously. The elf realised that he was staring when Mae’s chuckle threw him out of his reverie.

“Mind you, it wasn’t easy to find a new look for him, but I can see now it was certainly worth it.” She said cheekily and Fenriel waved his head and smiled back sheepishly.

“I’m starting to think that I will miss out tonight” he said jokingly and looked softly to his fiancée.

“You’re both lucky, that you’re so cute, otherwise I would be so done with both of you, you stubborn idiots.” Hawke scoffed but smiled brilliantly at Fenris when she caught his gaze slowly trailing the line of her bare back. Dorian reached the bottom of the stairs and before he could greet anyone Fenriel went up on his toes and kissed him quickly on the mouth. Dorian smiled lazily and purred in a deep voice.

“I know, I know, I look marvellous” that earned him a hearty punch in his stomach, but the smile didn’t disappear from Fenriel’s face. Varric harrumphed loudly and they both turned towards the rest, Dorian clearing his throat to bring back his voice to normalcy.

“Hawke, my dear confidante, and serah Fenris, I do hope that this time you’ll mind my delicate heart” Dorian greeted them.

“I can’t really promise anything, _Magister_ ” Fenris answered, but there was the barest of shadows of a smile on his lips. Hawke smiled at him ruefully.

“Pavus, I do hope you know how to throw a party, I feel I didn’t have much fun in my life since Skyhold” the woman said, but then she saw a large troupe of actors disappearing behind the doors to the ball room.

“Wait, were those…?” Hawke asked, her voice suspicious and eyes narrowed at the Tevinter mage.

“Oh yes, certainly, the one and only ‘Viscount’s men’ straight from under my doorstep, here to entertain my guests with a heroic reinterpretation of the ‘Tale of the Champion’” Dorian answered her question with a wide smile.

“I hate to interrupt your unending exercise in annoying one another, but I’m afraid that most of your guests will be here soon. Serah Fenris and I should get going.” The ex-Inquisitor said and Dorian’s face soured at that.

“Just Fenris, I think it would be rather troublesome to stick to the formalities during our quest” the Little Wolf said and Fenriel gave him a quick questioning look and nodded.

“True.” The red haired elf agreed and was just about to say his goodbyes to Dorian when he saw that the mage raised his hand up to stop him and quickly waved to the servant carrying a plate full of champagne flutes. While he gestured to everyone to pick up one, he looked around the hall and when he noticed Nadia he nodded to her to join them. Her fair hair was cutting of distinctly from the elegant gown made from black silk. When she joined them and greeted everyone with polite nodes and exchanged a quick smile with Fenriel, Dorian raised his glass. Looking at all of them with sparkling eyes he made his toast.

“To happy reunions: with ulterior motives!”

“To plotting” Maevaris joined in.

“To sneaking around” Fenriel added

“To finding justice” Nadia said quietly.

“Free drinks!” Varric deadpanned.

“Killing Tevinters” Fenris toasted with a small smile.

“And big parties at someone else’s expense!” Hawke finished with a flourish and they all drank. Setting the glasses back at the plate the only thing that remained was for everyone to go to their own missions for the big evening. Maevaris took Varric’s elbow and heading to the ballroom she said to him

“Let’s see if the alcohol is properly stacked”

Next was Nadia who elegantly curtsied to everyone excused herself and went back to the paused conversation with a group of cooks and servants. Knowing that their turn has come, Hawke turned to Fenris. Dorian took a chance to steal a moment with Fenriel.

“Don’t do anything I would do, alright?” Hawke joked, both of her hands in Fenris’s palms.

“Try not to turn everyone on the ball into you mortal enemies in exchange?” Fenris answered with a smirk and Hawke brought him closer for a quick kiss.

“I’ll try my best” she conceded. Fenris gave her a small smile and with a last squeeze of hands turned around and made a few steps towards the main entrance just to turn on his heel after a moment and look impatiently to Fenriel.

In the meantime Fenriel took step closer towards Dorian and brought a hand up, caressing his high cheekbone.

“Don’t you dare to ruin this outfit before I’ll be back, _vhennan”_ the elf said with a warm smile.

“As you wish, _amatus_ ” Dorian answered in a rare agreement and bent down to place a soft kiss between the branches of Fenriel’s _vallaslin._ With a last worried look Dorian let go of his lover. Fenriel, still smiling took a step back, then turned and walked towards Fenris.

Dorian and Hawke looked at the familiar figures disappearing behind the doors standing shoulder to shoulder.

“Should I be worried? The last time I met Fenris he was literally trying to rip my heart out” Dorian asked his friend.

“It’s rather a question if I should be worried? The last time they met Fenriel tried to smear Fenris on Skyhold’s walls as a new decoration” Hawke responded in kind.

“True or we could just assume that they’re both big boys and can take care of themselves” Dorian said dubiously.

“Now I _do_ worry”

“The ball is about to start serah” Nadia announced to them, a long list of guests titles and names already in her hands.

***

The ballroom was nothing short of glorious. After all it was his family’s pride and joy. Dorian couldn’t care less actually. Still he supposed it was useful enough.

A wide, marble staircase was leading down to the huge chamber meticulously carved in the hard rock, on which whole of Minrathous was standing. The main nave was high, supported only by the walls. Pillars were decorated with a pattern of wavy sea cane and a richly painted ceiling was bending in a graceful arch. On the floor levels arcades were leading into smaller chambers and alcoves and beyond that a thin gallery was surrounding a whole room from which you could look at everyone from up above. At the opposite side to the stairway there was a wide balcony, allowing the hosts to see all corners of the ballroom. Now, all of the stones and ornaments, the mosaics on the floors and the sculptures in the recesses were brilliantly lighted by dozens of freely flying mages lights. A soft orchestral music was spreading around from just under the balcony where a full set of musicians were seated and ready for the night.

The first guests were already strolling around, no doubt already starting an unending flow of gossips, secrets and plots that was as innate to the balls of the kind as the soft music of a violin quartet. Dorian sighed internally. It really was a shame that Fenriel was on the mission; his unending enthusiasm for the grandiose of civilisation would be a nice change to the usual mood of such events.

“Altus Livia Hieronthis!” herald announced in a booming voice when a slim woman entered the stairways, a long golden gown ornamented with everything from flowers to jewels covering more of the floor behind her than the woman’s skin.

“Oh dear, did we really had to invite this particular viper?” Dorian asked Maevaris as they were both standing at the bottom of the staircase, traditionally welcoming all coming as hosts of the ball.

“And here I thought you’ll be happy at the joyful reunion” his friend responded sarcastically. Livia came closer to them, her sharp features and quick moving, dark eyes brining to Dorian’s mind an image of a distinctly unhappy weasel. With the slight difference in height he could see all the way to the woman navel. All utterly fashionable of course.

“Magisters” Livia greeted them with an expression of mild boredom on her skinny face and a perfectly appropriate nod.

“Livia,…” Dorian started, but before he could go any further Maevaris cut in.

“Welcome.” She said in a regal tone and made a wide gesture towards the room. Livia turned at that and went deeper into the ballroom, quickly joining one of the groups that already formed.

“Oh come on, where was the fun in that?” Dorian scoffed and Mae smiled at him brilliantly.

“You need to learn to play the long game, my dear; I have a delightful surprise prepared for her later in the evening”

The names and the titles, the colourful dresses and feather collars were flowing in a steady stream after that. Magisters, altuses and knights. Wives, concubines and bastards. The ball in honour of the new Divine was the place to be this year in Minarthous and no one wanted to be missing, but the truly interesting guests were still to come.

“Praetor Aquinea Thalrassian of Qarinus!” at this Dorian looked up expectantly. He brought himself out of mechanical welcoming the constant stream of anonymous guests.

His mother chose at the occasion a very simple, straight black dress. The only ornament being a wide band of gold on her hips and an ornamental peacock pin sculpted in gold and glimmering seashell. Keeping a straight-rod posture she walked down the stairs slowly to meet them.

“Mother” Dorian greeted her with a small and very cautious smile.

“Aren’t you happy to see me, my dear son?” she asked him and kissed the air just next to his cheeks deliberately enough for all interested to see the gesture from afar. Turning her head on her graceful neck she seemed to try to see past Dorian, as if he was hiding something behind himself.

“What is it this time, Mother?” Dorian said to that, resigning himself to falling into any trap that his dear mother prepared this time.

“I thought that maybe your Inquisitor is shy, hiding behind your back, but it seems that he’s just simply absent.” she said mockingly and Dorian fought himself not to roll his eyes at her.

“He is otherwise occupied at the moment, but hopefully he’ll join us before the night ends” he explained.

“And what could possibly occupy such a barbarian with a flair towards destruction on such a lovely, minrathian night?” she inquired and Dorian sighed inwardly. They haven’t told her everything of course.

“The usual, I imagine” he responded evasively and hoped for the best. She mad a non-committal sound and turned to Maevaris deciding to ignore Dorian for the time being.

“Magister Tilani” she said simply in greeting.

“Preator. So good to have you with us tonight.” Mae responded swiftly.

“Altus Remus Pavus of Qarinus” the voice sounded again and Dorian’s blood boiled. Just after that, another title went into the air, shadowed by the name of his father so much that it was almost imperceptible. “Altus Marcus Pavus of Qarinus”

The two Pavuses decided on typical mage robes, all in silks and soft leather, painted in regal blue, snake and peacock feathers patterns on the textile. The older one was holding himself proudly, strength and self-assurance spreading around him like an aura. The younger man seemed to make a conscious effort to take as little space as it was possible. While they approached Dorian had to fight off a bitter laugh. Here they were: the last four members of once mighty House of Pavus. Two against two: plotting how to bury each other once and for all.

“Dorian, what a spectacular occasion for you!” Remus greeted him with a fake joviality.

“I do believe that _magister Pavus_ is well aware of his successes” Aquinea cut in, her voice icy as she measured her brother-in-law with a steady gaze.

“Do try not to murder anyone tonight, _uncle_ , it is terribly hard to wash blood off from these tiles.” Dorian said in a manner of greeting. Remus narrowed his eyes slightly at him and huffed.

“Halward would be so proud of you” the older man said and Dorian felt a steely grip of his mother on his shoulder. That was a moment when Maevaris decided to make her move. She took a half-step forward imposing enough on Remus’s space that he made a step back involuntarily and smiled brilliantly to the younger Pavus.

“Marcus! So good to see you, I hope that Aurelia is her usual self?” In the tense atmosphere of auras sipping of magic, ice and static energy Marcus turned to Mae awkwardly.

“Magister Tilani, yes, thank you. She feels well. Lovely weather today.” Marcus cleared his throat and looked around his family uneasily. Finally Dorian broke a short chuckle.

“Yes, indeed. That’s one of the fine qualities of having a ballroom underground”

“Enjoy tonight” Maevaris said dismissively while gesturing towards the room and with a last glare Remus Pavus had no other choice but to leave gracefully. Still Dorian could see that their little altercation brought a lot of attention from all corners of the dance hall.

“I would say that went quite well” Mae summed up.

“The honourable delegation of the free city of Kirkwall! His Excellency Viscount of Kirkwall, Varric Tethras with Champion of Kirkwall, lady Aedele Hawke!” the announcement ringed in the air and a wave of hushed whispers went through the ballroom. In sudden silence that followed Hawke and Varric stepped slowly down until they met them. Aware of the gazes Dorian gave them both a polite bow and Mae embraced Varric warmly. Afterward the young Magister turned to Aquinea to make the introductions.

“Hawke, Varric, may I introduce to you praetor Aquinea Thalrissian.” They both gave her a wary look. One to which she steadily responded with her own inquisitive gaze. “My mother” Dorian added needlessly.

“So that’s who you consider friends these days, Dorian? Does this infamous lover of yours know what company you keep, Champion?” Aquinea asked without spite.

“I think he knows that Dorian’s _heart_ is in the right place.” Hawke answered, straight faced and giving Dorian a charming smile. Varric snorted loudly.

That seemed enough for Dorian’s mother and she turned to Varric and Mae instead.

“Explain again.” She pointedly looked between slender figure of the Magister and the dwarf’s sturdy body. “How the two of you, are related?”

Mae circled Varric shoulder with one of her alabaster arms. “Cousins. Apparently the water in Kirkwall is a vile stuff. Make’s them all twisted and redheaded.”

“And rotten to the core. Let’s not forget the important details.” Varric shot her his best bullshit smile.

“Magister Solvitus Athras, of Minrathous!” They all turned at the announcement. The man at the top of the stairs was grim in his appearance. He wore a dark brown robe, ornamented heavily with gold and black leather. He could be in his late fifties, but his tanned face was already full of deep wrinkles. Still, from under his bushy eyebrows he looked at the ballroom with keen and greedy dark eyes. The murmur went through the gathered guests.

“Huh, dues this guy basically radiate evilness on purpose?” Varric asked watching how the dark figure comes closer to them. Two elven slaves were following him closely, clothed in simple dark liveries, metal bands on their exposed necks.

“It may be just his family trait” Hawke joked, but she eyed the following elves and her face darkened.

“Are those…?”

“Slaves. Don’t look so scandalized Champion, their presence here is merely an insult to our hospitality” Maevaris explained dismissively. Dorian shot Hawke an apologetic look.

“That won’t change fast in Tevinter, no matter our own opinions” Dorian said and turned to greet him, but Solvitus passed them both without a word. He continued towards a group of guests gathering at one side of the room. The elves followed, quiet as shadows and Dorian felt the uneasiness settling in his heart. Then he saw Livia welcome Solvitus enthusiastically. His forehead creased a little in annoyance. It wasn’t unexpected, but it still looked like trouble.

“You’re lucky that Fenris isn’t here after all” Hawke finally said, but her expression remained sour.

***

It took a long time for all the guests to gather. Hawke was just about to start yawning when the lights dimmed slowly to complete darkness. She felt herself jumping into alertness, but Varric’s hand found her shoulder and he said quietly, nudging her towards the entrance.

“Look.”

Flickering lights imitating orange flames rose from the floor at the top of the stairways and a solitary note from the cello punctured the air. Dorian smiled under his moustaches. The music rose and a pantomime made of lights and shadows moved. Dark shapes moved between the lights, some human, some distorted beyond imagination. Most were cowering in fear as the demonic figures hunted and sniffed roaming the scene. Even with an audience as immune to splendour and magic as this one there were excited whispers and delighted chuckles in the crowd when figures of smoke towered above the ball room and the music wildly followed. Hawke looked up enchanted. She knew, she always knew that there was so much more to magic. Yet to see it so freely used, without restrictions and fear, without need to hide the true scope of its possibilities was enrapturing.

The story began. The rise of the Imperium, the corruption of the mages, the mad cultists and the uncountable masses running away from the darkness. The dragons threw shadows over the ballroom with their dark wings, the pillars of fire coming down from their throats and dissipating just above everyone heads with a dark drumming of the orchestra. Hawke felt how the time turned meaningless as she followed the swirls of smoke and light. Then, the finale was unmistakable. The music rose, an angelic choir of voices joining in from the galleries when single point of silver light appeared on the right. It rose as human silhouettes gathered around it. The brightness erupted into a proud female figure and she raised a blade of light up. The dark shadows condescended all together, in one last figure of an enormous black dragon. She stepped forward towards the dark shadows and the rigid figures of her followers were but a black silhouettes blocking her light. The battle was short, but fierce, beams of light and shadowy smoke slipping up from the stage into the air above the public. Soon the darkness receded and the light came back to the whole chamber. In place of Andraste, a figure clothed in white was already standing proudly.

“His Worship, Divine Bergolius Franthis!” The herald announced and thus the new Divine made his dramatic entrance. All heads turned to see the young man in his traditional white robe and sophisticated tiara.

Just behind him the Templars entered. They ditched they full plate armours for vivid red and gold tunics and wide trousers. Before each distinctive group came a banner holder joggling with the flags. The brilliant colours of the banners swirled wildly as the knights turned them around themselves and threw them between themselves as easily as if they were all guided by magic. Hawke looked closely, searching for only one of the banners. The black and red squares of the Dragoons and seeing them she smiled slightly. All according to the plan.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> After re-reading this I feel like this chapter is a bit flat and slow, but there's plenty of points here that needed to be told/showed before the plot really thickens. Next chapter: Fenris and Fenriel try to cooperate and the Ball goes on in earnest.
> 
> If you missed that earlier and are wondering about all the nudges about the first meeting of Dorian and Fenris I'm happy to remind that this fic is a part of a much larger headcanon that wearwind and I created during last... well. Couple of years actually.
> 
> Here's the link to the whole series:  
> https://archiveofourown.org/series/1521449
> 
> And some specific recommendations:  
> https://archiveofourown.org/works/14129634 - The Extraordinary Antivan: Hawke comes to Skyhold and brings Fenris with her. Hilarity ensues as Dorian tries to hide his presence from the Little Wolf. That is until drama and introspection hits Dorian hard. A great read regardless of the whole series! Give it a try :D  
> https://archiveofourown.org/works/21095786 - Who lives, who dies, who tells your story : Ameridian, Lavellan, Solas - three elves, three stories and snippet into Inquisitor's state of mind before The Extraordinary Ball-Maker


	4. The Wolf and the Fox

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The ex-Inquisitor patience wears thin while he and Fenris wait for an opening for their burglary. In the meantime the Ball takes a comedic turn.

They slipped out through the back entrance and quickly disappeared in the shadows of Minrathous. Soon the lights and music of the mansion faded behind them. As he was scouting the region for the last couple of days, the labyrinth of ancient streets and buildings didn’t gave him too many problems, while allowing them to move unnoticed. Usually the pair of long ears would be enough to be invisible in the capitol of Tevinter. But they both decided that they don’t exactly look all that slave like while armoured to their teeth. Slowly reaching their goal – a square fortress of ancient stone and Divine’s archive guarded by the Templars – they switched from streets to the roofs. Fenriel could just look with a bite of jealousy how quick and quiet the Little Wolf was as he jumped to the windowsill and in few decisive movements reached the top of yet another roof. The metal clamp of the prosthetic arm made a stifled metallic sound as he climbed his own way.

The half hidden moon was giving them plenty of light and they swiftly run on the treacherous ceramic slates. When they reached their chosen place – a little niche where three roofs were coming together creating a well shadowed corner Fenriel was breathing hard. The sweat was already dampening his shirt. They sat down silently and looked towards the entrance of the building. Two guards were standing at the doors, their backs straight and their halberds shining in the moonlight.

It was time to wait.

Fenriel shot a long look at his silent companion trying to reconcile in his mind three images.

The Lyrium Warrior - standing at Skyhold’s courtyard, the lines on his body glowing with incredible power, his face set in hatred as he brought Dorian on his knees. He never met the man before that day. His first instinct was to smash Fenris’s magical body into the walls of Skyhold naturally. Fenriel left Dorian safe and sound behind just to find him on a mercy of a stranger. After the incident he couldn’t help how resentment took turns with scorn in his heart any time when someone mentioned the Little Wolf. The angry little warrior who turned his rage toward the guilty and the innocent alik without reason or rhyme.

And Fenris – Hawke’s constant companion, a steadfast lover and protector. Following her like a shadow through Adamant, disappearing just to dispatch anyone threating the Champion. A quiet figure in the Herald’s Rest, smiling at Hawke’s jabs when he thought that no one was looking. Humming with agreement at Varric ranting about a book he is supposed to be writing. All that was uncannily similar to most of Fenriel’s friends and companions. But the terrible first impression and the utter disinterest on Fenris’s side kept them strangers.

The final image emerged slowly, from gossips and rumours mostly. The runaway slave from Dorian’s stories told in hushed whispers, long after both Hawke and Fenris left Skyhold. The young gladiator turned into a prized slave, a magical experiment. An enslaved elf - a story too well known to a Dalish. At the same time a story of someone who _decided_ to run. To take his own life in his hands. No one there to thrust a great destiny at his head. Just a wish for freedom and some measure of happiness.

After a long moment of feigning indifference the other elf finally turned towards Fenriel and raised his eyebrows in question.

“What?” he spoke softly, but avoided a treacherous whisper that could carry farther than they wished.

“You don’t like me particularly, don’t you?” Fenriel asked in the same quiet tone, meeting his eyes directly. Curiously, he felt himself really interested in the answer.

“No, I don’t.” Fenris answered simply and the ex-Inquisitor’s lips turned upward at the ends at how direct it was.

“Fascinating” he said and looked back at the entrance. The guards were still there, as they well knew they will be for the next two hours.

“Your meaning?” Fenris inquired after a long moment.

“It’s just that I usually meet people who either don’t like me and try to kill me, or don’t like me and try to hide it. Or the combination of the previous two. You don’t like me, you don’t hide it, and you don’t try to kill me. It’s unprecedented.” _Especially considering how quickly you usually get to the killing part._ The other elf answered with a measured voice.

“Don’t I?” Little Wolf teased, a shadow of a smirk on his face. _Ah, there. This deeply hidden sense of humour that apparently he has._ Fenriel thought and quietly scorned himself for how acidic he sounded. Considering the Skyhold incident a closed matter he really had no reason to dislike him so.

“Well, my heart is still in my chest, so no, I presume you don’t” Lavellan said to that and bitterness sneaked into his voice. Fenris expression went back to studied neutrality and he turned to look upon their target as well.

“Hawke asked me not to.”

Fenriel couldn’t even start to guess if it was an utterly sarcastic statement or just a simple fact.

“I don’t get you.” He groaned with frustration. Fenris looked back to him with mockery in his features.

“Do you have to?”

“Considering that Hawke is my friend and you’re Hawke’s...” Fenriel stuttered. The Little Wolf twisted his head a bit, expectant.

“You’re Hawke’s _partner_.” _Smooth, real smooth, oh Inquisitor._ “And that makes as allies. So yes, I would very much like to understand you better. I think.”

“Allies you say. I was told I’m not doing well with diplomats.” Fenris snickered.

“Are ex-diplomats counted in that as well?” The ex-Inquisitor asked.

“I guess we’ll see.”

***

“Your Worship” Dorian bowed politely when he, Aquinea, Maevaris and Albertius came up to the new Divine to greet him properly. Hawke and Varric already made themselves scarce, saying something about food, alcohol and parties. “Can we extend, once again, our sincerest congratulation on your election?”

“Now, now, Magister Pavus, wouldn’t that be the Lucerni congratulating themselves their own success once again?” the young Divine answered the question with a question. Dorian had to admit that he felt sorry for the lad. Charming, idealistic and foolish he was perfect for what they needed, but oblivious to the real stakes and dangers that the game really took.

“Your Worship” Aquinea bowed her head deeply and Dorian was left to wonder at the sight. So that what it took to make his mother cower - a bit of _divine_ authority. Suddenly a realisation came at him that maybe his andrastian faith didn’t come out of nothing.

“Praetor.” The Divine returned the courtesy. “Thank you for your support. The Magisterium may try to ignore how much the voices outside of its halls really matter, but I certainly won’t forget about your steadfast support in Quirinus.”

“The Imperium needs a strong Chantry. It remains to be seen if it will get what it needs now.” Aquinea said and Dorian sighed internally. _There goes the cowering._

“And it will get it, I’m sure. As long as the Chantry will have their faithful allies” Maevaris interceded and Dorian’s mother measured her with her pale eyes.

“Just as Lucerni thrives under its strong _male_ leadership?” She asked sweetly. Mae’s nostrils flared, but her face remained impassive.

“Try harder my dear; I usually hear worse things before breakfast. Your Worship.” Magister Tilani bowed and left, Albertius trailing in her wake. The young Divine looked between Dorian and his mother with a slight consternation on his face.

“I think it is time for me to mingle” He hurriedly said and left himself.

Dorian gave his mother an exasperated look.

“Was that really necessary, mother mine?” He asked and Aquinea surprised him with a smile.

“Most certainly, after all I couldn’t bear your closest allies to be sensitive and prone to tantrums. You’ll bring enough of that to the Lucerni all on your own.”

Dorian decided that maybe Hawke and Varric had a good idea with finding alcohol first after all.

***

The merriments of the ball started for good as the first pairs went onto the main floor to walk and switch, turn and bow in the complex figures of court dances. _Still, priorities are important._ Hawke thought as she stuck her fork into yet another exotic looking piece of food. The fork itself was ridiculous, it had just two tines, long and so curved that it made holding up to any food almost impossible.

“Hawke, you really have to see this” Varric told her in a deadly serious voice as he approached her, a glass of wine in his hand. She turned immediately.

“What is it? And how bloody it is?” she asked as they politely, but quickly made their way through the guests to one of the smaller chambers.

“Well, I guess it depends strongly on your own reaction” Varric chuckled and with a wide gesture showed her a small stage set up in one of the smaller chambers. Before it a dozen or so Tevinter nobles in pairs and small groups were laughing robustly. Dorian and Mae were between them and winked towards the dwarf when they saw them. Not really wanting to see what caused all that, Hawke looked upon the stage to see nothing more or less than the Viscount’s Men. The group was recreating what could be nothing else, but “The Tales of the Champion”. At the exact moment a huge woman with arms as wide as port chains in Kirkwall’s harbour, in full armour splashed in blood from head to toe and spiky black hair was standing proudly. Next to her a paper-mache figure of a green dragon was moved slowly by strings.

“Look, they got Junior just right!” Varric said excitedly as she saw a tall, young boy with much more ankles and knees then it was comfortable standing in the background. He was clothed in oversized armour and looking out fearfully from behind “Hawke”. With a puff of smoke the dragon disappeared and a glamorous woman entered the stage in green gown and a horny helmet.

“Hey, dragon! You look hot for your age!” “Hawke” greeted her and smiled widely as the thunderous laughter went through the public.

“That’s… that’s! That’s not how I sound!” Aedale said indignantly turning to Varric and Dorian. The dwarf just smirked back.

“Oh, Chuckles, you have no idea” Varric answered her as the dragon-Flemeth went on a long, inspiring speech about heroes and destinies, some of the bored public decided to switch their attention to trays of food and drinks set up in the corner.

“Personally I think it is a very fine comedy, very refined” Dorian chuckled. The Champion shot him a murderous gaze, but Varric hushed her when the next act started. The story went quickly through her humble beginnings in the City of Chains conveniently omitting the struggles and soon turning toward the Qunari invasion.

The muscular woman playing Hawke was in the middle of a stand-off with the arishok. Here it was a great beast produced from spare textile and forgotten scraps of paper. Before the fight began a slim actress in a chain mail bikini and golden bracelets entered the stage with swaying hips and waving a thick tome in her hand.

“I have come to parlay, I have your book of Koslun!” she announced and winked playfully towards a young actor painted from head to toe in an ashen paint. The prop elven ears were twice as long as they should be and the ornaments on his skin were painted in a bright, glittering powder.

“Is that supposed to be Fenris?” Dorian asked incredulously.

“Tell me about it” Hawke murmured and unable to help herself she looked how the atrocity of the play will continue as the actor came to the front, shoved his half long hairs back with a sweeping gesture and while sending an audience a white toothed smile he straightened up and told the towering Qunari.

“You named her basalit-an yourself, and now she challenges you for the fate of Kirkwall and possession of the book of Koslun to the duel to the death!”

“Oh, come on! Why can’t you get even this one piece right? They returned to book! The fight was for Isabela!” Varric complained loudly, but in a second all of them were looking toward the stage stupefied and frozen in place with sheer incredulity.

The arishok laughed loudly and from somewhere behind the scenes a quick jig started. The swift violin accompanied by the comical sound of a trumpet made the audience tap with their feet enthusiastically. At the same time the actors started to run in circles trying to catch each other.

“No.” Hawke started.

Isabela was running first, the book of Koslun held by her high in the air as she made long jumps. Just after the pirate the mountain of paper and horns that was the arishok run making overplayed wide steps. Next came Hawke who stopped every few moments to throw long, colourful scarfs at the arishok while shouting out spells. Then the red haired dwarf joined in by running in and placing a strategically placed kick in the butt of everyone, friend or foe. A cascade of pantomime and indignant shouts followed as everyone turned they wrath on the newcomer.

“Freaking way.” Varric added looking how his stage counterpart was saved by Isabela who swinged from the chandelier and grabbed his outstretched hand. The rest of the characters decided upon it to threw themselves into fisticuffs.

Behind them Dorian and Mae were laughing so hard that they couldn’t breath as they watched between the stage and the horrified faces of their companions.

***

Fenris was really, _really_ , starting to get on Fenriel’s nerves. As planned they have waited till the long column of Templars dressed for the party left through the main doors and then they have swiftly followed to jump upon the roof of the stronghold.

All as planned.

Swift and quiet as shadows.

And so on.

The only problem being that Fenris apparently decided that he was doing the whole mission solo! Or at least it looked that way from Fenriel’s perspective as he heaved to catch his breath when he tried to keep up with the warrior. His left shoulder ached mercilessly as he swung on his prosthesis to reach the balcony they both choose as their entry point. When he finally managed to reach the place he saw that the doors inside were already open and Fenris was halfway through the corridor. The ex-Inquisitor felt every single month of sitting around Skyhold feeling sorry for himself with every pace he had to run after the damn Little Wolf.

“Would you, on Dread Wolf’s tail, be so kind and _slow down?_ ” Fenriel said as loudly as he dared, annoyance colouring his voice. He winced internally on his own choice of words. Apparently Solas was going to haunt him even when Fenris was doing a perfectly good job of making Fenriel miserable all on his own. _Screw that, misery loves company, and those two line up quite nicely._

“Come on, we don’t have much time” Fenris only murmured in answer and cursing under his breath Fenriel couldn’t do much, but follow while harking out his longs in the too dry, too hot air of the North. They quickly searched through the top floor, opening desks and rummaging through the shelves, but they didn’t found anything particularly interesting. They moved on to another floor, but they knew that now between them and the actual archives of the Dragoons stood the stronghold canteen. The loud clattering of plates and utensils warned them before they tried sneaking through it. Finding a door nearby they found themselves in something that could be only described as mop locker. They squeezed inside and locked the door behind them.

“And now, we wait” Fenriel sighed to himself as he made himself comfortable on upturned wooden bucket. The small chamber smelt of dust and vinegar and his eyes slowly adjusted to the dark. Fenris stood still, his back supported on the door frame. The ex-Inquisitor leaned back and supported his head on the rough wall feeling the sweat trickling down his back, the long clothes soaked and his throat dry. Why in the Void he ever thought that running around Tevinter would be a good idea? The temperature and the effort made him dizzy and he could swear that the high pitched noise at the corner of his attention was wallowing of the Well. A slick, ice cold thought started to raise up. It wasn’t what he wanted. The North, the Imperium, the mission. The danger and the miserable company, he felt that he... He slammed the door of his mind on the thought and huffed out a breath of annoyance. A deep breath and his jaw stiffened as he curbed himself back into order.

“Hm.” Little Wolf murmured.

“What?” he snapped.

“Nothing, you’re just being a little obvious.” The other elf said a small smirk on his face. Anger, swift and irrational, burning like acid on his throat flared in the ex-Inquisitor. It dissipated as quickly as it came and Fenriel just grumbled “Well, sorry for that! Not everyone can be smug and silent all the time”

“And whining, who would have thought” Fenris continued. The edge of his eyebrow was mockery made flesh.

“I’m not whining, I’m explicitly expressing my discomfort.” The ex-inquisitor corrected. Somehow the word jabs made him calmer brought him into the known waters.

“Maker’s breath, you’re even starting to sound like him. Weren’t the Dalish supposed to be a proud people, keeping their identity and such?” The Little Wolf sneered and looked at the other elf from his higher position.

“What is your problem here, exactly?” the red haired elf asked, his voice becoming a bit sharper.

“You’ve bedded a slaver” Fenris stated simply in a neutral tone. Right. The burning anger was back as quickly as it went.

“I’ve bedded a _person_ ” Fenriel answered icily. “Where he’s from has as much to do with that as your own past have to do with your relationship with Hawke. Or do you like to think about it that she’s fallen for a slave rather than you?” At that the neutral expression of the lyrium warrior darkened and his lips became a thin line of annoyance. An awkward silence has fallen between them and Fenriel sighed internally, knowing that he overstepped. Cut to close. But how he was tired of Fenris’s attitude towards him, towards Dorian and towards the mages in general. The fact the he was sweating immensely in his leathers and the muscles of his shoulders were tugging at him mercilessly wasn’t exactly helping as well. The Well was wailing uneasily at the back of his head as if annoyed by the presence of the lyrium. This whole journey to the Tevinter, the mission with Dorian and Hawke and Varric was supposed to be a happy reunion. A chance to make something good for Tevinter and for Thedas. It was supposed to be an adventure.

Instead Fenriel felt only weaker and more useless than when he was sitting alone in Skyhold making sure that all pilgrims found themselves a blanket and a good place to sleep during their stay. It turned out to be an endless exercise in what apparently he couldn’t do anymore. Couldn’t use the Anchor, couldn’t climb swiftly and couldn’t braid his damn hair himself without some of them getting stuck in the prosthetic arm. Couldn’t keep up with the grim Little Wolf.

Fenriel breathed in deeply and gritted his teeth. He could do it, he could carry on. If he could make it through Haven, if he could make it through Hallamshiral who is Fenris to show him that he can’t be strong and civil and _the better man_ this time? He took a deep breath looking for words, words of someone wiser and calmer than himself. Finally he quietly said:

“Hawke always sees the people under the masks or false beliefs we place on ourselves. Your past could never have fooled her.” Fenris looked up at him quizzically and says nothing, but somehow the silence that fells between them now is a bit less awkward.

***

“I think I saw enough to last me a life time. How am I supposed to write another line in my life after that?” Varric mused, his face shell-shocked when the curtain fell on the triumphant Champion of Kirkwall.

“You’ll manage. At least it wasn’t _your_ story that was butchered” Hawke interceded.

“That’s my point, it was _my_ story” the dwarf argued. Soon Varric took a chance when Mae whispered something about a wine merchant looking to expand his business outside of Tevinter and they migrated to the back of the room. Hawke and Dorian stayed next to the stage.

“Do we really want to see it to the end?” Hawke asked her voice betraying a mix of annoyance and actual curiosity about how much worse it can get.

“We certainly do” Dorian agreed and shot her a brilliant smile as the curtain went up again.

The stage was lighted dimly, the forgotten empty bottles of wine were scattered around and in the middle the painted Fenris was sitting duly in the armchair, a book and a bottle of wine in his hands as Hawke approached.

“Ugh, do I really want to know what they will do with that?” Hawke’s face was twisted with a grimace.

The scene went on, the flowery words and over dramatic acting mixed with gentle music turned towards a shade of feeling. Than the poetry cut through, a sentence here, a expression there cutting much closer to Dorian’s heart that he cared to admit. A heartfelt dialogue of lifelong longings and substantial fears, of hopes unknown to the tevene hearts and... The Magister found himself quite out of words. The curtain fell again and the remaining public started to sniff in their handkerchiefs Hawke turned towards Dorian with surprise on her face.

“That was…” she said trying to put her reactions into words.

“Surprisingly good?” Dorian offered looking just as shocked as his companion.

“I was going to say ‘actually accurate’, but yeah, that works too” she clarified.

“Dorian, my dear, would you care to dance?” Mae approached them, Varric nowhere in sight. The Magister shot an asking look towards Hawke, but she just made a shooing gesture with her hand.

“Go on, I can take care of myself.” With that Dorian turned towards Magister Tilani.

“With you, Mae? Always.” He said and took her arm.

***

As they disappeared behind the door Hawke looked around, wondering where Varric may have gone, or what other interesting possibility the huge gathering could offer her. With suspiciously good timing a servant seemed to lost her footing on the well-polished floor. A vase full of orange punch spilled onto the front of her dress and sink quickly into the material, the vessel itself clanged with a metallic sound on the ground as ice and chopped fruits spread all around. Few guests turned their heads towards the noise, but seeing the mess they quickly went back to their conversations. The servant turned towards her and Hawke was already half-way through saying that nothing happened when she was greeted with a toothy grin and quick dark eyes in the tanned skin that even after all the time she remembered well.

“Hello, Champion” Asha said quietly and busied herself with a cloth, making a show of nervous cleaning of the dress. “Sorry for the dress”

Hawke looked on, frozen with shock. What in the Void was a Fog Warrior doing on a freaking Tevinter party in Minrathous? Few other servants quickly came with cloths and buckets to clean up the remainders of the punch from the floor and Hawke quickly saw that all of them had the typical ashen skin of the native people of Seheron. Asha, the picture of clumsy servant if you weren’t counting the glistening, quick eyes showed her a way out of the main chambers under the guise of the ruined gown. And indeed, in the small adjacent room there was a certainly more tevene in style, but not less splendid dress waiting for her. Asha came into the chamber leaving two of her companions outside the door and turned the key.

“Come on, I’ll help you dress. You shouldn’t be gone for too long. Someone may notice the absence of the one and only Champion of Kirkwall.” The woman said quickly and she started to help Aedale to get out of the stained dress.

“What are you doing here?” Hawke finally asked and Asha smirked from behind her back.

“Trying to make contact with you actually” she answered, but it didn’t really helped.

“Wasn’t a raven a bit simpler solution?” the woman asked.

“As if finding out where we should send it to, to find you was all that easy. Anyway, we needed you here. In Tevinter. So what’s a better way to contact you than once you’re already here?”

“How did you even knew I was coming?” Hawke inquired.

“Oh, please. Your attendance was all the gossip of the capital for the last three months. At least when they weren’t discussing the black Conclave.” Asha explained and dragged the heavy material over Hawke’s head.

“Get dressed, I’ll explain in the meantime” the younger woman said and Hawke didn’t have any better idea than comply.

“The times are changing for Seheron. What you, and Fenris did during the Siege was the last push the people of Seheron needed, and now, with the fights out breaking with the Qunari again and all this crazy mess in the Senate we finally see our chance.” The woman said.

“Chance for what?” Hawke mumbled from under the half worn dress, Asha came quickly to help her.

“A chance for Seheron to be once again ours. A free Seheron, for free people.” The warrior answered and there was a tone of hope and determination in her voice. Hawke tried to wrap her head around the idea itself. Seheron was at constant war with both Qunari and Tevinter for the last sixty years. She saw with her own eyes how desperate the situation was on site. The thought of actual freedom didn’t seemed improbable. It seemed downright crazy.

“Asha, what madness are you talking about? We fought to give you shelter, not to see you all die on some pointless revolution!” Hawke protested loudly, but the younger woman only smiled at her slightly.

“Easy Champion, no one is going to die. At least not too soon. We see our chance, but we recognize it that it is one set in the future. We’re looking for contacts, information, influence. Footholds. And most importantly, we hope that the Warrior Who Wielded Lighting will join our cause.” The woman explained. Hawke was still trying to get over her own shock as she asked.

“So what do you want with me?” the Champion asked.

“Think about it. Think long if you need to. Talk to Fenris. Talk to your Magister friend. And we’ll find you soon.” Asha said while finishing tying the back of her dress.

“And now we are fairly out of time. Think about it, Champion, please” she pleaded for the last time while directing the other woman back to the ballroom.

“I will” Hawke answered simply and Asha and the warriors were gone in the crowd as easily as in the fog of Seheron.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If any of you, dear readers, are confused about the "Skyhold incident" or the surprise appearance of a Seheron warrior I recommend, as always, other fics in this universe:
> 
> https://archiveofourown.org/works/14129634 - The Extraordinary Antivan - Fenris arrives in Skyhold. Dorian decides to lay low. Hilarity ensues… at least until Dorian’s mind is blown in an unexpected way. A whole lot of crack and witticisms with building drama. It gets serious.
> 
> And Hawke/Fenris fics going all the way from the middle of Dragon Age II to the events just before Inquisition:  
> https://archiveofourown.org/works/8641366 - Tomorrow - So he left her. But life goes on - Set in Act 2 of DA2, a semi-canonical story of friendship, bickering, bad puns, fighting, eavesdropping, sexual tension, Satinalia, Wintersend, and anything and everything that comes together into just simply this wonderful, vibrant mess that is Hawke's Kirkwall, back in its glory days. Mostly romance. Fenris' POV.
> 
> https://archiveofourown.org/series/574537 - Choices of the Champion - A Champion is not a honourable title; is a right of blood soaked into the land, one that alters the lives of everyone around for better or for worse. A gift, or a curse, when the world is faling to pieces? And what is the responsibility of the banished Champion? After the events in Kirkwall, Hawke and Fenris flee the city and cross the Waking Sea, confronting the life they had before with the life past the cataclysm.


	5. Something Dark is Coming

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Inquisitor finds in the Archives the secrets that everyone thought long burrowed while at the same time the Lucerni's enemies gather at the Ball.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: Brief descriptions of unethical medical experimentation. Still very much in the Canon Gore and Violence region.

When Dorian and Mae reached the ball room and joined the already dancing couples he already knew that something had to be amiss. Maevaris was tense. And that simply didn’t happen. Ever.

A quick dance started and they whirled around the floor. She kept her shoulders straight and her face composed, but Dorian could tell that she was worried about something.

“What is it, Mae?” he asked her when a figure of the dance had them close to each other. She looked him in the eye, her pale eyes wary.

“Look” she said and nodded slightly towards her left. Dorian’s gaze followed the direction and he could see Livia dancing gracefully in the arms of Solvitus. The Magister said something and Livia smiled at him brilliantly.

“What? Solvitus and Livia? These two snakes are just about right for each other” he responded and wondered what it was about.

“It’s not only them! I realised it tonight, when I overheard them, but I don’t know how I could have missed this before” Maevaris whispered to him and waited till the dance took them onto the other side of the room.

“Look there, and there, and there” she nodded towards different groups of people and dancing couples as they moved. Dorian recognised some, mostly from the opposite side of the Senate floor. Some he saw for the first time in his life. That wasn’t surprising considering that he was still rather readjusting himself to Tevinter’s political life since he came back from the South.

“Bryseis, apprentice to Ananias, and her brother, Varros. Just next to this old viper Nyx. Damaia. Corrin. It doesn’t matter who exactly right now.” She counted them down as they were passing next to them. With the end of the song they moved towards the balcony where they could speak at least a bit more freely. If anyone would look in their direction Mae was smiling easily at him as if they had a friendly chat. But her voice remained quiet and insistent.

“We’re looking here at another Venatori starting. Or worse. Venatori at least had the decency to create a secret society.”

Dorian smiled in response as well, for all the guests to see, but his mind was racing. Maevaris social instinct was infallible and her knowledge of the main players far greater than he ever could hope to achieve.

“Dread Wolf take it” he cursed under his nose and Mae shot him a confused gaze. Only then he realised that he picked up the Dalish curse from Fenriel.

“We need to find out as much as we can. Find Nadia, tell her who our servants should listen to a bit more closely tonight. I’ll go and tell Hawke and my mother.” Dorian said after a moment and Maevaris nodded to him in agreement and disappeared in the crowd. Moving she smiled at friends and acquaintances unhurriedly as if she was just looking for another glass of wine.

***

They waited a long time after the cluttering of the plates quieted before they decided to come out. The hall and the canteen were empty and shrouded in darkness. They quickly made their ways through it towards the archives. Fenriel had to admit that it was really handy to be in the new Divine good graces, as they knew beforehand everything they wished to know about the building itself. One could think that it would be enough to be in the Divine good graces to get the copies of the interrogation transcript without all the breaking and entering, but the Tevinter Templars weren’t exactly loyal solely to the Chantry’s hierarchy. Certainly not the Dragoons.

Soon they entered the windowless chamber. It was full of long shelves and drawers, each filled with documents and plans. _It will be a long night._ Fenriel thought as he lighted the mages light and left it floating above their heads.

“Start from the right, I’ll search here” he told Fenris and they went to work.

They knew what they were looking for, but the question of how such thing were catalogued or described remained open. Fenriel picked up a first document and quickly gave up on the whole drawer. Food requisitions. Next looked like armour and sword spending. He quickly worked through the entire desk and went to another looking for the name of Halward Pavus. They would mention him in the interrogation, wouldn’t they?

He could hear Fenris searching through the drawers on the opposite side of the room, but the rest of the building seemed quiet at the moment.

The time flew quickly and Fenriel found himself relaxing. Middle of the Templar stronghold or not he had only paper under his fingers and scent of glue and dust in his nostrils. The mages light gave a steady, reassuring glow and the elf was hit with nostalgia of sorts. He was longing for a life that never was, and never could be. Of patient work with tomes and papers, looking for clues and surrounded by ever patient and understanding letters written in the black ink. None beside him really interested in the mysteries he would be unfurling in the old tomes. No wars or divine intervention, just Dorian finding him between the bookshelves to drag him out for dinner.

A distant sound of the steps jerked him back to the reality. He tensed and he dimmed the light. Now even the faint gleam from under the door wouldn’t betray them. They waited in anticipation. Finally the steps faded away and with a sigh they came back to their search.

Suddenly a scheme caught Fenriel’s gaze and he stopped to analyse it further. A figure showed a man and a set of complex lines upon his body. Alchemical formulas were scribed at the side, but he could understand only a fraction of them. He saw that a set of notes was attached to the same folder and he quickly took them out and read at random.

_“Subject number sixty-three. Died of blood loss two hours after the beginning of the ritual. Need better hibernation spells or to cut down the time of preparing the lyrium.”_

He shuffled through the papers, his eyes getting only glimpses of the notes.

_“Subject number three. Far too young, need older specimens.”_

_“Subject number fifteen. Apparently elves fare better than human subjects. Lasted a whole four hours.”_

_“…lyrium far too hot. Useless for the ritual.”_

_“…found new tomes. The language looks like a gibberish, but the formulas look familiar. Will try them next.”_

“What is it?” Fenris asked from the other side. Something shuddered inside Fenriel with simple thought. _He can’t see this. But he should. Or shouldn’t he?_

“Maybe nothing, some old notes” he said to the other elf and continued to shuffle through the notes with strange, detached curiosity. He knew exactly what he was looking at: the mysteries behind Fenris’s lyrium powers laid out clearly in logs of failed experiments. Logs speaking of dead slaves, both human and elven. Notes from the old tomes, deciphered meticulously by Danarius. A dozen thoughts run through his mind.

They can’t leave those here, not even with the new Divine.

Sooner or later someone will try to repeat the experiments once again. Sooner or later more will die, or, maybe even scarier thought: sooner or later there will be more lyrium warriors, and maybe this time they will be loyal to Tevinter. Right. They can’t stay here. But they should never go through Fenris’s hands. He was half decided to burn the papers right then and there when a new thought occurred to him.

What if someone had handed him a manual on the Anchor? The magical secrets of the Mark, the ways to handle it, to stop the discharges, to… keep it? He took a deep breath and turned a page to appear as if he still looked through the documents. He remembered the alien, sweltering power starting in his hand, reaching all the way into his chest. The emerald glow crackling with power to rip or mend reality as he saw fit. A dark little secret showed his head.

A memory of how good it felt to handle forces like that. To feel godlike.

He closed his eyes and took a deep breath in and out.

It doesn’t matter now. The Anchor was gone and the documents in his hands remained his problem. They could be useful, to Fenris if no one else, he was sure of that. Just as much as he knew that showing them to Fenris would be needless and cruel. What to do? _Hawke._ Yes, Hawke will know what to do. And if there’s anyone he could trust them with it would be her. He’ll get them to Hawke and let her deal with this.

“I’ve found it.” Fenris said a second later and Fenriel turned toward the other elf and saw that he was holding up a thick file. Trying to look innocent Fenris bend the experiment notes in two and put them behind his jacket.

“Let me see.” The Little Wolf brought the papers to the closest desk and they both bent over them to see better in the dim light. Fenriel took a hissing breath in when he got to the bottom of the page.

“It wasn’t Remus! It was Solvitus all along. And he’s on the Ball right now!” The ex-inquisitor’s hand quickly darted toward the communication crystal on his neck. A flicker of magic brought it to life.

“They’re observing the wrong man” Fenris whispered back. Fenriel was already trying to get hold of them.

_“Dorian!”_

_“Amatus?”_ The Magister voice sounded clearly, a touch of worry to his tone.

“We found the transcript. Remus had nothing to do with it. It was Solvitus who had Halward killed. Is he on the Ball now?”

” _Yes, but knowing this we will look at him like hawks. Hurry up, we’ll keep an eye on him.”_

 _”_ Good, good. Save us some of the good wine.”

_“Will do, amatus. I’ll see you here. And soon, you know I don’t condone tardiness.”_

“Always so demanding.” Fenriel chuckled and flicked the crystal off with a thought. The ex-Inquisitor saw that Fenris was looking at him with suspicion.

“What was in the papers you took earlier?” he asked.

“Just some black mail material on Dorian’s enemies in the Magisterium” the lie flew easily and he saw immediately that his answer was too nonchalant. Fenris narrowed his eyes and widen his stance in a silent argument statement: _I’m not moving till I’ll know the answer and neither are you._

“It does not concern you” Fenriel tried his most inquisitorial tone. Maybe it was the general lack of respect that the Little Wolf had for him, or his own waning skills, but the other elf just looked at him grimly.

“I’ll be the judge of that. Show them to me!” Fenris raised his voice, it wasn’t loud yet, but in the silence of the Archives is sounded clear like a bell. The voice raised something up in Fenriel, a flicker of memory of how quick, how violent this little, ashen warrior could be. The ex-inquisitor tensed, adrenaline shooting through his blood.

“No!” he yelled, far too loud. “We’re coming back to the mansion right now.”

Fenris scoffed loudly and made a move as if he wanted to grab the other elf. Fenriel managed to take a quick step back to avoid him, but doing that he fell into the desk. An inkwell standing on the desk flew straight for the floor and shattered with a loud noise. That shook them both out of their petty squabble and after one look at each other they turned towards the door. Quickly and silently they opened them only to realise that they were already too late.

On each side of the door four Dragoons were waiting for them. Their large shields blocked effectively the whole corridor as they stood side by side in twos creating two impregnable rows.

Fenriel raised the shield above himself and Fenris a second before the first blast of magic hit them. He staggered with the force of it and felt how the shield sipped away most of his strength. Lyrium on Fenris’s skin blazed into life and the first Templar fell down on their right, blood flowing freely from under the armour.

The ex-Inquisitor took the opportunity immediately and stomping his feet forward he sent a wall of ice into the second Templar. With half of his power dedicated to keep the other Templars contained on their left the spell left him shaky and breathing hard. With movement so fast that Fenriel never really caught it the Little Wolf sprung onto the third enemy. Their path down the corridor was mostly free.

“Run!” Fenriel shouted needlessly. Fenris already got the fourth Templar and was all but ready to go.

Then the shield flickered and the darkness took them when the Templars hit them with the Wrath of Heaven.

***

Dorian found Hawke and Varric next to the stage just as thick smoke was slowly dispersing on the scene, revealing the rumbles of the Chantry.

“Hawke, Varric. Lucky that I found you both at once” Dorian greeted them and they turned to him surprised at his voice. At a short nod from him they ventured closer to the walls and further away from the audience.

“We have a small scale problem. Two problems to be more precise.” the magister started and Hawke eyed him suspiciously.

“Define small scale” she said.

“Let’s say… Venatori scale?” the mage suggested.

“I think you need to get your scale reconsidered” the Champion of Kirkwall narrowed her blue eyes.

“It seems that we have a new political faction starting. And from what we saw till now the membership requires a complete lack of taste, a dash of evil and a grudge against the Lucerni and the Inquisition.” Dorian explained.

“Also. Remus didn’t order the assassination of my father. Solvitus did.”

“How do you know that?” Hawke asked.

“Fenriel just contacted me.” He caught a question in the Champion’s eyes and answered it “They’re both alright, and on their way back now. Anyway, they found the proof, but it named Solvitus rather than Remus in the assassination. We watched the wrong man for the whole evening.”

Maevaris joined them at the moment and without pleasantries she started.

“I can’t find Nadia anywhere. And the servants haven’t seen her in a while. And guess who’s missing us well?” she spoke “Your dear uncle Remus”

All three of them straightened up in alarm.

“Let’s find them” Hawke commandeered simply and they stormed out of the chamber.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As we're getting close to the middle let me remind you dear readers that this is hardly a happy story. I adore Pavellan and would wish them both all the best, but when I started to dig into what Inquisitor could think, feel and do after Tresspasser I came up with this and well... They're important, busy people who always had more drama in their lives than time to process it, which I think isn't the best mix and I always found stories that don't simplify such issues too lightly.
> 
> They will, eventually, figure it out, but daaamn. They will take their time.
> 
> I'm happy to remind that this fic is a part of a much larger series written mostly by one and only wearwind.
> 
> Here's the link to the whole series:  
> https://archiveofourown.org/series/1521449


	6. The Darkness Within

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As Dorian, Hawke and company rush to find Nadia they have no idea that Fenris and Fenriel never left the Dragoons stronghold. The plot thickens and emotions fly high, but the true question remains: will the Inquisitor and Fenris find a way to cooperate? Or will they crack under pressure?

Fenriel woke up in what one could unmistakably describe as a dungeon. His head felt heavy and he could still see the afterglow of the spell on the inside of his eyelids as he shook his head and tried to make a sense of his surroundings. He was in a small, dump cell. The only light came from the barred window far onto the corridor. They took away his prosthetic arm and for all the curses he usually reserved for the thing, he keenly felt the lack of the now-familiar weight on his shoulder. They must have noticed that he was using it as his magic staff. His right hand was cuffed in an annulment bracelet and it felt like losing a sense. All the subtle things: the Veil shimmering at the edge of his mind, the traces and swirls of spirit activity in all things, the constant presence of his pendant felt dulled down and grey. It was like looking at a world through a thick fog.

 _Isn’t that just a perfect ending to a perfect day?_ The elf thought to himself and slowly got up. Void, but his head was pounding mercilessly. On the other end of the cell, Fenris was pacing the small space like a caged animal. His whole figure was tense, ready to jump at the nearest occasion of freedom. His green eyes were flashing in the dim light like that of a wolf chased down into a corner.

“You’re up” Fenris stated harshly, but in contrast with his constant movement his voice was steady. And almost unnaturally calm.

“Mostly, yes” Fenriel murmured trying to blink away the confusion in his head.

“Did you saw anyone? Guards?” the ex-Inquisitor asked and tapped the iron bars searchingly. They were properly sturdy. Even the hinges looked smoothly joined as they disappeared into the stone wall.

“No. I don’t suppose you can somehow contact the others?” Little Wolf responded.

“Unfortunately no” the mage said. It was his first thought. The sending crystal was still safely hidden away in his pendant, but for all the magnificent power of the artefact it still required use of magic on his side to start the connection.

It was a small cell and soon Fenriel was out of corners in which he could look for holes, nails, or anything useful in any way and all this time the only sound he heard were Fenris’s aggressive steps. _Thud. Thud. Thud._

End of the cell. Turn.

_Thud. Thud. Thud._

Turn again.

Somehow it didn’t surprise the red haired elf that Little Wolf found yet another way to make his presence unbearable. _Seriously, of all the people I could have ended up in a cell how in the Void I ended up with Fenris?_ He thought to himself feeling the familiar desperate-situation sense of humour popping up in his mind.

_Thud. Thud. Thud._

Bull. Bull could be fun in a dungeon. Fenriel was sure he had plenty of stories of his previous adventures involving damp basements. Or Varric. He could think the stories on the go if he would run out of true memories.

_Thud. Thud. Thud._

Cassandra would probably be a boring cellmate. Still, she would be quiet and dignified, that for sure. Cole would be depressing, especially considering his origins. Blackwall. Right. He wouldn’t like to be Blackwall’s cellmate.

_Thud. Thud. Thud._

Far too close to the hangman’s nook. Alright, Sera would be annoying, who knows, maybe even more so than Fenris. What was it with him and elves? What was it with elves and elves? Did we all conspire to hate each other?

_Thud. Thud. Thud._

Dorian. Oh, he was sure together they could think about plenty of things to pass the time while waiting for their inevitable, gruesome death. Still, Fenriel knew he would probably cry and that would be an utterly lousy end to their lives. He was never a fan of sappy stories.

_Thud. Thud. Thud._

“Could you just stop doing that?” the ex-Inquisitor finally erupted.

“No.” Fenris said simply and continued.

_Thud. Thud. Thud._

Fenriel growled and set his forehead on the bars. This will be a long night.

***

At this point, Dorian did not care about the subtlety anymore. They stormed through the side rooms and chambers while the guests were turning curious heads in their direction. Quickly their search went towards the rest of the mansion after all the rooms adjacent to the ballroom turned out to be empty or full of aristocrats fooling around.

“I’m happy we thought about this” Hawke said when they made a quick stop in a dressing room just next to the staircase. There, under the carefully laid protective glyphs, lied their arsenal.

“Let’s just say that my last visit in Halamshiral taught me a thing or two about how the balls tend to end up when Fenriel is close by” Dorian responded with a small smile while Varric gingerly took Bianca into his arms. The jokes and banter were all good and fine, but it was hard to miss one thing. This evening was quickly turning against them. At least Fenriel and Fenris were alright, probably on their way back through the city already.

They were halfway up on the stairs when they heard a scream. Dorian leaped two steps with every move as they hurried towards the commotion. Still, before they reached the top of the corridor Hawke was a dozen meters ahead of all of them. _Always the Champion, it seems._ The mage thought and jumped into what he recognised as doors to his favourite office.

“Let her go! Now!” Hawke shouted, her voice booming through the small space. Dorian couldn’t see much behind the frame of Hawke and Varric. Mae ran just behind him and appeared just above his shoulder. Her hands were already spilling white light. They all got into the chamber.

The office was a mess. Fine, dark ink was spilling from the overthrown bottle on the desk and slowly gathered on the floor. Various papers were lying around, stained and crumpled as they were apparently drawn from the shelves in a frantic search. Halward’s portrait was looking from above, the grimace of scorn on his face somehow even more prominent than usual. In front of Hawke Nadia and Remus were struggling next to the desk.

“You will not address mi in such a way, _Champion._ Your title means nothing here.” Remus said confidently. Finally Dorian found a vantage point from which he could see clearly and instantly his staff went up in flames at the sight.

The tall figure of his uncle was bent over Nadia, who struggled to get free, caught between the heavy desk and steady grip of the larger man. Her face was bruised and blood was flowing freely from her nose. Her pale grey eyes, wide with fear, locked onto Dorian’s and he felt himself moving forward before he could think. They may be in Tevinter, but right now, they’re in _his_ Tevinter.

“Good then that I decided to take the Magister title after all, _altus_ Pavus” Dorian said staring down the older man. The kohl circled eyes, colder and darker than his own, but still so similar looked back at him with contempt.

“Enjoy it, while you can, nephew.” The older Pavus bitten out after a moment of tense silence. He still wasn’t letting go of the elven woman, almost as if he was stalling for time.

“Unhand her. I won’t ask twice.” Dorian stated and a metallic click told him that Varric decided to make the point even more obvious with the help of Bianca aimed and ready to shoot. On his left, he could feel how the buzzing of Hawke’s magic was making the hairs on his arms stand up.

The clattering of shoes and heels alerted them to the company at the corridor and Maevaris turned on her heel.

“You can’t be here. It’s an internal matter of house Pavus.” She said quickly, but the high-pitched voice of Livia stopped her almost mid-sentence.

“Oh, but Magister Tilani. We heard screams, we’re here to help” the venomous snake responded in a voice far too full of self-satisfaction.

Dorian turned surprised towards Remus and the older man smirked unpleasantly. Roughly he pushed Nadia towards him and the younger mage dropped the staff to catch his secretary. She came up to her own feet quickly, her face bend down shamefully as she quickly uttered.

“I’m so sorry, dominus, I couldn’t stop him” her words were quick and hushed. Guilt wrenched itself in Dorian’s guts at the submissive tone she used, but there was simply no time for that now.

“It’s alright” he said quickly and nodded towards Varric who threw Bianca over his shoulder in one fluid movement and guided the elven woman towards the chair.

“Here lass, let me clear that” the dwarf spoke softly staining a white, lawn handkerchief with blood while Dorian and Hawke turned towards the newcomers. Even through the bottleneck of the door they could see clearly that there was a small, and a very deliberately chosen crowd outside. Livia at the front, her usually glacial features cracked in a satisfied smile. Bryseis, and her brother, Varros. Nyx. Damaia. Corrin. The whole matched set of the faction that Mae spotted earlier.

How he hated sometimes that Maevaris was always right.

“I assure you, everything _will be_ dealt with” Maevaris said coldly, her bright eyes throwing lightings at Remus.

“Maker’s breath, Remus, what happened to you?” Bryseis exclaimed while putting her perfectly groomed hands to her mouth. Her voice was so full of distress that Dorian could almost think it was genuine. Almost.

“The elven bitch tried to rob me!” Remus boomed, his voice indignant and full of self-righteous shock. The gathered aristocracy dissolved in an agreeing chatter and Dorian feel his head spinning with barely contained fury. Oh, how the South ruined him - once in the past he wouldn’t feel a thing.

“You lying bastard!” Hawke shouted. She brought her bladed staff up and quickly run Remus up to the wall. The altus brought up a magical barrier and the metal of the blade fell off towards the floor with a screeching sound. Hawke’s aura lighted with sudden energy and the whole air became stiff and electrified when the mages gathered at the doors raised their hands as well.

 _What do you get when you lock up ten angry mages, an armed dwarf, and an elven scribe in a room?_ Dorian thought humourlessly. _A bloody mess._

“Champion!” Maevaris’s voice was one of steel-cutting authority and everyone stilled in a charged silence. The air kept crackling with power.

Mae first, then a quick glance from Hawke. Remus and Bryseis later. In the end everyone ended up looking towards Dorian, waiting for his move. He was one of the three Magisters present. Two on the Lucerni side. And Bryseis on the other. It was still his mansion and his Ball. But then he saw a wicked upturn of Remus’s lips and a glint in his eye and realised that was all according to the plan. Remus’s plan. Or someone else’s? His uncle wasn’t one for subtle power plays. How in the Void it all happened?

He could demand the truth. Satisfaction. Consequences for Remus. And put his uncle’s words against elven servant’s before all the unkind eyes of the Tevinter nobility. Suddenly Dorian missed the good old days of fighting demons and red Templars. You kill them, you kill them some more. Problem solved.

He quickly looked towards Mae and saw her shake her head just so. With a heavy sigh, he leveled his staff down and gestured towards the door.

“Get out Remus, and don’t ever think about showing up at my house ever again” the young Magister said bitterly and Remus’s smile widened.

“ _Excuse me_ ” he said pointedly towards Hawke as he carelessly cleared his way of her staff. The Champion looked like she was about to protest but for once in her live she held back. Thanks for the small mercies. The colourful crowd trickled out of the corridor and back towards the ball room. Livia left last, turning back to send a thin-lipped smile towards them before she swept her long gown and followed her associates.

Quickly Mae closed the thick wooden doors with evidently much more force than was needed and Dorian made a few steps in the small space, his tightly curled fists at his hips.

“ _Fasta vas!_ ” He cursed.

“Took that just right out of my mouth, Sparkler” Varric said darkly, his left hand still lying on Nadia’s shoulder in quiet support.

“Would someone explain to me, what on Maker’s ass just happened here?” Hawke asked with frustration, her gaze wandering between Dorian and Varric. It was Mae who answered her and for the first time during the evening her jovial expression was replaced with one darkened with fury.

“We, my dear, were played. Or rather, we played ourselves right into their hands. Whoever they may be. _Vishante kaffas_ , we need to come up with a name for those bastards, and soon. It’s simply annoying to refer to them as “this new faction of typical tevene pricks”. Whatever they wanted they asked Remus to find it. I saw him earlier with Livia, but thought nothing of it. Then, when he was caught he knew they will run to help him.” the words were flowing quickly from the blonde mage.

“But why did you let him go? Didn’t he just assaulted Nadia? In your own house?” Hawke demanded and now she faced Dorian. He sighed heavily.

“It was Remus’s word versus Nadia’s. It doesn’t matter what happened. It doesn’t even matter what we think. If I would try to push Remus into some kind of responsibility Livia and her friends would support his version and me and the Lucerni would be laughed off as elf lovers who can’t even manage their own households.”

Hawke face crunched and she seemed ready to talk his ears off. He shot her a tired look.

“I hate it as much as you do. But we need to think long-term. What I don’t understand is what they wanted, what did Remus want from my office?”

“I think he was just looking for anything incriminating” it was Nadia that spoke up. Her face started to swell from the hit and the bruise was going to be a stark contrast on her alabaster skin, but for the first time since the beginning of the commotion her eyes were sharp and focused.

“I followed him myself, or through other servants throughout the Ball, as planned. When they told me he was breaking into your office I came to see what was he doing. He just looked through all the papers, one after the other.”

“You should have told us that you’re going to confront him.” Dorian told her gently. She turned her gaze away quickly.

“That is not how things are done.” She said and Dorian fought the impulse to pinch the bridge of his nose in exasperation.

“Not anymore. Right. That leaves us with the second problem. Anyone saw Solvitus?”

After a series of murmurs and nods of "no, not in a while" Dorian felt an icy hand of fear grabbing at him. He exchanged a quick, anxious look with Hawke and took the crystal out.

 _“Amatus?_ How is the way home going?”

The silence was almost tangible.

“Fenriel?” A bit louder. “Fenriel? Are you there?”

***

Fenris did stop his pacing after a while, but it didn’t really help Fenriel’s spirits at this point anymore. They were stuck.

The lack of any guards or demands made it seem that they will remain so till Dorian and Hawke will realise that they’re taking too long with their return. The ex-Inquisitor let his head fall back to the wall and he half-closed his eyes. Not that it changed much in this light.

Taking a big gulp of air smelling of mold and ancient piss the elf suddenly realised that there was quite a good possibility that this could be the moment when his luck run out.

Maybe after all these implausible miracles of fate and sheer luck that kept him alive all those years, maybe, maybe that was it. He could feel the dark, cold, and sweaty fingers of fear ever so slowly grabbing at his heart. His left hand twitched in phantom pain and Fenriel bit off a curse.

“Talking to yourself, mage?” Fenris grumbled from the other side of the cell.

“Everyone has to talk to someone reasonable once in a while” the ex-Inquisitor responded smoothly, the grimace of pain on his face hidden in the dark.

“Then you should change company, you’re not exactly the light of reason, oh great Inquisitor” Fenris mocked, bored apparently.

 _Well, that would be rather adequate, wouldn’t it? The great Inquisitor, Fenriel Lavellan, the Herald of Andraste. Stripped from power in Halamshiral, forgotten in Skyhold, found dead in Tevinter._ A flicker of memory of Ameridian’s kneeling figure came through his mind. _Found dead, presumably another eight hundred years later that is._ His ever-helpful mind added.

“I would most gladly do so, but it seems rather impossible at the moment” the red-haired elf grunted.

“If someone’s shield would hold up a bit longer we wouldn’t be here” the Little Wolf retorted and Fenriel felt the blow coming far too close to the truth.

He could still feel dizzy from the energy drain of their fight, but the fact remained that it simply shouldn’t happen. It wouldn’t six months ago. It felt ridiculous, too improbable to consider as a fact, but the truth was that after the Anchor was taken he was left helpless like a pup. With rehabilitation his physical strength and balance get used to what they lacked. But his magic stubbornly held back. He knew the spells, the intimate touches of the Fade on his mind, the flavour, the flow of power. But the supply of it was not there anymore. Simple like that.

The gestures, the runes, the knowledge were all there in his memory. But his strength was that of a bookwormish Dalish First. First time out of the woods.

And with the annulment bracelet he lost even that.

“Phase-out of here if you’re all-powerful and mighty” the ex-Inquisitor said bitterly and knew that his voice took on a venomous tone. He instinctively waited for some response, some change in the other elf’s aura before he remembered that he was completely cut off from the Fade. Jabbing at Fenris suddenly felt like poking an angry bear while blind.

Fenris just grumbled in response.

“And the Little Wolf hides his teeth” Fenriel sing-songed and felt how this new, Fade annulled environment made him strangely reckless.

The arm that wasn’t there ached mercilessly, the Well wailed at the background and as thoughts of power and lack of it came and went through his mind he thought that something else stirred within him. Some deep, dark chasm made itself known, aching like the phantom arm, constricting his chest and grabbing his throat. A shadow of the truth suspected, but not yet revealed.

“You better hope I do” Fenris answered, his tone sharp.

“Or what, you’ll phase right through my chest? Hold my heart in your fist to silence me? I can’t believe I’m the one they call a barbarian.”

The talking kept his mind off the ominous feeling in his heart. A mindless spatter of words that landed on the aura-less Fenris.

“The Magister got what was coming to him. Less actually.” The other elf simply said. This hit straight home. The thought of Dorian, _Dorian_ out of all people getting the brunt of the guilt carried by the Imperium burned through any last constraints he had when it came to judging the Little Wolf.

He was so sick of understanding others. Of placating allies. Weighing options. Why it was always on him, to be a better man? Why it was him who was supposed to make the effort? What was the point if in the end it got him right here? And if a quiet voice added that this time around it wasn’t the others that were difficult it died out in his righteous anger.

“What was coming to him?! To _Dorian_. Out of the whole, rotten, Maker forgotten Imperium you choose the one bright, brave man that volunteered to fight _against_ his countrymen to blame? Because what? Was that convenient? Because he was close by? So you choose to kill him as what, a sacrifice to your own bloody problems?!” It felt good and it felt bitter at the same time to finally let loose. To just tell every little, thing that his mind offered. No stopping to assess the _diplomatic_ weight of his words. No waves of emotions reverting at him through the Fade.

“I _didn’t._ ” Fenris specified.

“Right. You didn’t. I wonder why, oh yes, _Hawke_ was there to stop you.”

Fenris sighed upon hearing that, sounding rather resigned than angry.

“What is your point, mage? It was two years ago.” he said.

The point was that he never really dealt with it. Hawke and Fenris were invaluable in the siege of Adamant and then, then there was simply always something more important to worry about. He kept his promise and dragged Dorian everywhere where he went, no matter how hard or cold the ground was. And Fenris became the problem that was, quite literally, furthest away from his mind. The fear resolved itself and the grudge remained lodged somewhere deep in his heart. And then his world got upturned, his mind inhabited by the whispers of the Well and then turned and turned and turned. By the single report on his clan's fate. By plodding through snow mixed with blood and red lyrium. By ancient Gods and delusional Magisters.

The point was that he wasn't really having a point of his own since he walked out of the Breach.

The point was also that the annulment bracelet was bitingly cold and sharp on his wrist. That the air in the dungeon was stiff and vile and the rescue was nowhere in sight. That the rage and the words and the little spikes he got out of Fenris was everything that lied between him and the deep, dark chasm of truth.

“What is my point?” Fenriel laughed bitterly, an ugly and harsh sound even in these unpleasant surroundings.

“My point is that you’re always so quick to judge others, aren’t you? Mages, magisters, all Tevinters! I have listened to it over and over and tried to be patient, but really, who are you to judge them?” the ex-Inquisitor made a pause and upon a significant silence from the other side he continued. Words streaming out of him freely, not even leaving a track in his mind or memory. The lack of response of any kind, Fenris’s face hidden in the shadows, and his aura quiet under the annulment bracelets were intoxicating.

“Here, Little Wolf!” He dragged the experiment notes from under his jacket and threw them to Fenris’s feet.

“Here’s your _legacy_ , your power, your precious little trauma that justifies every violent act, every bloodlust thought of yours. A Little Wolf, a slave that entered a gladiator fight and killed for the _honour_ of becoming the first Lyrium Warrior in ages. You fought and killed for them, for your glory. And then? Do you think it takes but one life to recreate an ancient ritual? Danarius may have not the money for more lyrium, but I assure you, there are plenty other things to test first.” His voice was louder at the end than he expected it to be and he could feel his chest rising heavily, his face flushed as the bitterness of the past, and the present of their current situation coloured his voice.

“So tell me, Little Wolf, when you judge Dorian, his wealth and privilege built upon slaves backs – do you ever think what was the true cost of making you this swift, magical warrior you are now?” the ex-Inquisitor finished acidly and breathed heavily.

“And what did you do with your new, shiny powers?” Fenriel continued.

A flicker of memory: Cullen grimly informing him of his clan death, every doubt in his mind since then a variation on how much it really cost to lead the Inquisition. Oh how he revealed in the banquets, and the attention, the weight his words carried on every meaningful court of this world. How often he wondered if that was the prize. If that was the universe's way of setting the balance right.

“What? Did you turn them on your masters? Did you fight the Tevinter the way Dorian did? Oh no. You _slaughtered_ your clan, your people the moment Danarius found you. Did you try to kill Hawke when Danarius found you in Kirkwall? That would seem like a right pattern.”

“You have no idea what you’re talking about” Fenris growled and grabbed at the papers, bringing them closer.

“Read on, Little Wolf, it’s quite a page-turner. Read on and remember all the good times in Kirkwall. Surrounded by friends and lovers. Well secured under the Champion wing and your prowess. Tell me, how do you pay for your life in Kirkwall? Is that by any chance _fighting with your lyrium_?”

Silence and the shuffling of the papers were the only response. The Little’s Wolf eyes searched the papers frantically his ashen skin paling even more with every word, his movements becoming jerking and erratic.

“Don’t make that face. It was all in the name of science. And you should be first to appreciate what this brought you. After all, you wanted it.”

Fenriel breathed heavily, a smile of grim satisfaction slowly fading away from his face. His monologue burnt out the anger and Fenriel felt a cold needle of anxiety as he recalled his own words. _No, no, no, that’s not what I meant!_

“Fenris?” the red-haired elf asked anxiously. Wanting desperately to take the papers back, to give them to Hawke as planned, to reverse the flow of time this instant. But then he shielded his eyes when the doors to the dungeon opened and Templars came in with a bright glow of magical light. Just behind them, a tall, elder man in an expensive robe was smiling with a disgusting amount of self-satisfaction. With the long goatee and bushy eyebrows to match the dark eyes sitting deeply in their sockets, he was a perfect image of an evil Magister from some cheap Ferelden play.

The Magister looked with a childlike giddy towards Fenris, waving his hand close to the iron bars.

“The Lyrium Warrior, oh my! The secrets I could squeeze from you! Everyone thought that Danarius’s favourite possession was lost forever, and here we are.” The mage bellowed at which the Little Wolf caught up with the reality of their current predicament.

“I’m no one’s possession, you son-of-a-bitch!” Fenris snarled at him violently, but the Magister didn’t seem to mind him much.

“You could have fooled me” he said and motioned the Templars. They roughly grabbed the Little Wolf and struggling pushed him through the cell doors. Fenriel quickly came up to his feet, but a quick jab at his jaw left him sprawled on the stone floor while Fenris was dragged away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So here we are - the crux of the story! I may only hope that all the intentions behind Inquisitor's behaviour are more or less clear and how in the heat of the moment we do tend to say things that well... get out of hand.
> 
> Enjoy, keep track of the warnings and leave me a comment saying what you think! :D
> 
> And as always - check out the rest of the Extraordinary series here: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1521449


	7. ...and an haughty spirit before a fall.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dorian and Hawke are quickly running out of time to save their loved ones. Little did they know that the true damage was already done.

Hawke and Dorian didn’t care much for stealth anymore. The main doors to the Dragoons headquarters fell in with a fireball. Before the flames had the time to disperse they were already running through the corridor.

“Where do we start?” Hawke shouted as they reached the first turn and Dorian eyed the two corridors.

“Any ideas?” he asked. The Champion huffed in frustration and jumped right. He followed closely. He focused on the noise their boots were making on the stone floor and the blood buzzing in his ears. The frantic chase was perfect as it didn’t leave any time for wondering. Wondering how much time passed. Wondering how little answering the call of the crystal took. How much the silence means.

The narrow, stone-made corridor brought them straight face to face with a two men patrol. The Templars boldly stood their ground. At least for a moment.

“Halt!” they shouted. Seconds after their command they were flying towards the walls as Hawke’s mind blast threw them like ragged dolls. Soon they have found stairways leading down. They ran down jumping over multiple steps. The dungeons seemed just as good starting point as any.

A smoke blackened, the circular chamber was acting as a guard's room. That actually slowed them down for a moment. Even as they surprised the four guards at their game of Wicked Grace they gathered themselves quickly. Two stormed Hawke with their shields while the other two stayed back, preparing the annulling spells.

“Eat this, mage!” a bearded Templar shouted at him as a blindingly white beam of light flew in his direction. Only a hastily set up barrier allowed Dorian to remain on his feet. With a quick turn of his staff, he sends the roaring flames at his opponent.

Hawke yelled angrily at the other side and with a thundering sound one of the Templars ended up stuck on the wall of sharp ice. They went to work to knock down the remaining two knights.

Busy as he was Dorian was fascinated by the glimpses of Hawke fighting. She was fire and fury incarnate. Using her elemental magic just as often as the bladed end of her staff she was both the warrior and the mage combined. Vivienne’s confrontational style couldn’t even compare to it.

Soon the fight quieted and Hawke quickly picked up the heavy keys from one of the guards. When they opened the doors they saw nothing at first, just a pitch-black corridor. Dorian summoned up the mage light above their heads and the small space was flooded with light.

That revealed Fenriel lying on the floor of the cell motionless.

“Fenriel!” Dorian yelled his voice high-pitched with worry. With quick move of his wrist the lock to the cell shattered and the Magister kneeled down, his knees hitting the stone floor hard. Frantic, he shook his _amatus_ by the shoulder.

The elf’s eyes fluttered open and Dorian let out a breath he didn’t knew he was keeping.

“ _Amatus!_ ” He whispered. Fenriel blinked and unsteadily raised himself upon his one arm.

“Dorian. Maker, am I glad to see you” Dorian swept him quickly with a wave of spirit energy and thanked the Maker himself when he found his beloved only bruised and tired.

“You tell me, I cursed the crystals every second we run here. Without the bloody thing, I wouldn’t have to worry!” the Magister knew that his mouth was basically moving of its own accord. It happened. When stressed he just sputtered anything that came to his mind. In the meantime, he was busy breaking the annulment bracelet and taking deep breaths of _he’s safe, he’s alive, we’re alright._ _Fasta vas_ , that was one thing he did not miss from the Inquisition.

“Fenriel! _Where_ _is Fenris_?” Hawke’s voice interrupted him and Dorian felt a pale sting of guilt. He did forget the little warrior. He caught a strange look of panic on Fenriel’s face and then it disappeared under a mask of Inquisitor-on-a-mission.

“Some Magister took him away, the Templar knocked me out then. They can’t be too far.” The ex-Inquisitor said and Hawke was already turning towards the door. Dorian helped Fenriel up and the elf instantly scrambled to gather some papers lying on the ground.

“Go! I’ll follow you!” the ex-Inquisitor shouted and Dorian’s habit to obey this voice overcome his reluctance to leave him behind.

He ran upstairs, trying and failing to catch up with Hawke. His stamina was no match for hers, his determination a bleak shadow in comparison. The Champion stormed through the corridors and Maker help anyone standing in her path. She didn’t open any doors, didn’t check any chambers, she just charged, honed in onto a signal only she could know. Maybe she felt Fenris lyrium. Maybe she just followed her fury. The fact remained that Dorian could do nothing but follow.

It didn’t take long for the Templars to realise that there were intruders in their headquarters. The Templars waited for them after the next turn. Their wide shields were blocking the corridor and behind them stood Solvitus.

“My, my, magister Pavus. Shouldn’t you be back at your mansion? The ball won’t host itself” Solvitus greeted them in a voice so cheerful that it sounded deranged. Hawke didn’t stop to exchange pleasantries. She simply slammed into the line of the Templars, her magical shield working like a ram. Soon the battle raged on, spells, swords, shields, and bodies all crammed into the stone halls.

“The ball will manage” Dorian shouted while his shield covered the entire battle against Solvitus influence. The Magister smiled viciously and soon the battle ranged for Dorian on two fronts. Half of his mind was busy keeping the shield up, while with the other he exchanged a quick repertoire of deadly spells with the other mage. In the meantime, the Templars fell down left and right under Hawke’s fury.

“Not for long” Solvitus added and only his eyes alerted Dorian to a knight coming at him from behind. The Templar had his sword already raised and ready and making a step towards the young Magister. He already knew it was too late to avoid the blade.

Then metal shrieked on metal when Fenriel jumped in between them, his prosthesis allowing the sword to sling onto the side.

“Damn Dorian, I leave you for three bloody minutes!” the elf shouted and sent a tiny electric charge towards his enemy. The Templar jumped back and Dorian raised his eyebrows at the surprisingly timid strategy of his lover.

“Pot, meet kettle” he snickered and finished the Templar with a fireball.

“Oh. So the rumours are true. Shame I didn’t know earlier, I would just send the assassins to your house directly.” The thin lips of the old Magister widened in a caricature of a smile as he observed them and send the steady assault of energy onto Dorian’s barriers.

“Duck!” Hawke yelled sharply and he and Fenriel obediently hit the ground. An inferno of fire went over the heads and the smell of burned flesh filled the air alongside unhuman screams.

When they jumped back up Dorian could see that no Templar was left standing and Hawke’s breast was moving rapidly up and down. Solvitus have hidden behind a shield and now, seeing the destruction around himself he turned on his heel to run.

“No, you don’t!” Dorian shouted and took out the last trick in his arsenal. The haste. Such a small, impossibly complex spell that Alexius and him came up during the work for the Inquisition. The world slowed down, everyone moving like flies caught in thick honey and Dorian run towards the other Magister easily passing everyone.

He came face to face with Solvitus in mere seconds and raised his staff burning with power.

“That’s for my father, you bastard” Dorian spitted out and brought the staff down.

Solvitus slide down the wall with a grimace of surprise on his face when time regained its normal flow.

Hawke was at his side in a blink of an eye. She gave a look of contempt towards the dead Magister.

“ _Bastard._ ” Then she was running towards the doors from which Solvitus emerged earlier. Fenriel close behind her, sparing a moment to lay a reassuring hand on Dorians shoulder and then gone - following the Champion. The young Magister shook his head and ran after them.

After he passed the doorstop he quickly relaxed. He was standing at the entrance to what could be nothing else but a maleficar laboratory. A thick stench of dried blood was wafting through the air and the shelves and tables around contained a multitude of ominously dark bottles. But Fenris was standing in the middle, his chains lying uselessly at the table, Hawke in his embrace.

His hands were bloody and two figures were lying on the ground in pools of their blood. Apparently, someone didn’t need much saving.

The Champion and the Little Wolf held their heads close, deep in whispered conversation, their hands tightly wound together.

Dorian respectfully took a step back and left the chamber. Soon Fenriel joined him. His inquisitorial mask was slowly dissipating after the battle and he looked ragged and shaken. Before Dorian had a chance to ask Fenriel burrowed his head in the crook of Dorian’s neck and shuddered slightly. There was nothing left but to embrace his _amatus_ and leave the questions for later.

***

Dorian and Hawke filled them in on the events of the evening on their slow way back through the darkened city, and Fenriel’s mind filled with growing worry. _And so, another night is lost to the darkness._ He thought his own heart heavy with guilt and doubt. If anyone noticed the four ragged, bloodied figures they apparently decided to let them pass in peace. Fenris was quiet the whole way, and as much as none of their companions probably suspected the true reason for it Fenriel felt that as just another failure of this night. They told Dorian and Hawke what happened at the headquarters but both elves decided on leaving out the details for now. They went in. They found the documents showing that Solvitus in fact ordered Halward’s assassination. They got caught. That was as much as Hawke and Dorian needed to know for now.

It felt like a retreat, this slow, tired return from the battlefield into a magnificently lighted mansion. Still, Fenriel could feel Dorian’s warmth through the ruined silk as he leaned onto him and the salty, seaside air was tasting crisp on his tongue. _I’m alive._

They slouched into the vestibule, the music coming to them from the ballroom and Fenriel decided that that was it. There was enough defeat for tonight. It was time to score a victory.

“Dorian, would you be so kind as to make sure that the majordamus is still on his post?” the elf asked clearly and both Hawke and Dorian shot him surprised looks.

“It’s time to turn the tide” Fenriel said as an explanation. He shook a grimace out of his face and straightened up proudly. Dorian didn’t look convinced, but he turned towards the ballroom and did as he was asked. With her arms crossed on her chest, Hawke followed the ex-Inqusitior when he walked down towards the ball.

The servants opened up the doors widely and the four of them were drowned in the bright light of hundreds of the mage lights floating above. All faces turned towards them as the majordamus announced in his booming voice.

“The Herald of Andraste and the Saviour of Thedas! Serah Fenriel Lavellan!”

Bloodied, exhausted and proud he came down the stairs leading their ragtag band and the colourful sea of aristocracy parted before them. Some with curiosity, others with respect, fear or contempt. They passed silently next to the Livia and her allies and Lavellan thought that he couldn’t plan it better even if he had time to do so when he noticed that the new Black Divine was just next to Aquinea.

He took out the bloodied documents, careful to separate them from the lyrium warriors notes and clearly handed them over to the regaly looking praetor.

“I believe that will be a good start in prosecuting all involved in your husband’s death, milady” Lavellan said in a neutral tone and Aquinea’s lips turned slightly up in what could be content.

“I’ll see to that, that it will be a good end to it as well” she responded and took the papers decidedly, ignoring the smudge of brown-red blood that it left on her skin. Looking at everything closely from the side Bergolius set a measured gaze at Lavellan and made a dignified bow.

“Your Worship” he said with just a polite amount of reverence. Seeing all the eyes on them the ex-Inquisitor returned the bow affirming the Black Divine of the North for the first time.

“Your Holiness”

They left the ballroom in silence.

***

All of them wished for nothing more than food, a bath, and long sleep, but some things are too important to leave them for later. Fenriel luckily caught Hawke coming back towards her and Fenris’s room just before she went in.

“Hawke.” He said to stop her and she turned gracefully but creased her forehead at him.

“You should be resting, tomorrow you’ll feel your every little foolishness thrice as much as today” she scolded him and he let the caring tone warm his heart. He should treasure his friendship with Hawke while it lasts.

“That couldn’t wait. There are some documents that we found with Fenris that I could entrust only to you” he passed her the crumpled pages with the details of the lyrium warrior's experiment.

“I trust that you’ll do the best with them for both Fenris and the Lucerni” Hawke’s eyes narrowed at this, confused at what he was talking about, but he was too tired to explain it now.

“What is it?” she asked, but he just waved a hand at her.

“You’ll see in the morning. What’s important is that they are in your hands now.” He said and Hawke nodded and made a move to turn.

“And… tell him I’m sorry, Hawke” Fenriel stopped her again.

“Sorry? Sorry for what?” she asked in confusion.

“Just tell him that.” He just repeated.

“This mission scrambled your brain, Inquisitor, you’re not making much sense.” She noticed, but he knew that he won’t do anything more this night.

“Goodnight Hawke” he said and turned to go look for his own bed.

***

When he hit the down-filled mattress Fenriel suddenly realised exactly how tired he was. But the night heaved on him in more ways than one. The dark chasm that made itself apparent earlier kept him company still and the words he said to Fenris gnawed at him. If only he could find a way to make it right. To apologize somehow. To take them back.

Dorian just emerged from the bath, his hair wet and glistening, his face looking softer than usual without the kohl contouring his features. He looked tired as well and after everything quieted down found quite a few scratches from the battle, but nothing requiring much assistance. He sat down on the side of the bed and Fenriel could feel his eyes taking him in. The pale skin, the hunched-down eyes, one arm barely a stomp, another bruised by the bracelet. A far cry from the gold and green-clad leader Dorian fell for - a bitter voice in his mind supplied. But that was just one more thing he was too tired to deal with.

“Spill it” Fenriel murmured seeing the words lodged behind Dorian’s furrowed eyebrows.

“That’s the one thing I didn’t miss from the Inquisition.” Dorian said softly, his fingers tracing the blue and black bruise on Fenriel’s jaw.

“Sure, getting hit and slashed and burnt yourself was the jolly part” Fenriel snorted, but the soft caress warmed his heart. Dorian shook his head.

“It’s just that, it just… I was so sure it was Remus that was responsible. And then when the crystal went silent… I…” the young Magister uttered and Fenriel couldn’t help a soft smile blooming on his face.

“Speechless, _vhennan?_ ” he inquired, his eyebrow raised playfully.

“Yes! Damn it. You do seem to have this effect.”

“Come here” he urged and blessedly, Dorian obeyed without more talking. The other man climbed up onto the bed and circled his arms around the elf. Fenriel felt surrounded by warmth. Unwelcome usually in this hot weather now it didn’t matter. Now the warmth was the blood flowing through Dorian’s veins and as such could bring him only reassurance. In the stark contrast to the dungeon, he was now lying on the silky linens, warm and comfortable, melting into the touch of his _vhenan_. Dorian nuzzled into his neck and with a sigh, Fenriel brought his remaining fingers into his dark hairs. He could smell the wet, freshly washed hair.

All the dreams of power and importance seemed forgotten in this embrace. Even the shadows at the edge of his mind seemed to quiet down. Maybe without the Anchor, without the Inquisition, without Solas he could still feel precious and important and secure when Dorian held him? Maybe he could trust that.

Dorian quieted, settled, and eventually drifted off to sleep. It was an eventful day for them both. Fenriel remained wide awake as his own words caught up with him. His own actions. Flashes of Fenris’s closed off face went through his mind and he felt a deep, shameful contempt rising to his throat.

He could run to Fenris and Hawke. Explain himself. Beg forgiveness. Swear himself to their service. To Fenris’s service.

The chasm threatened to swallow him whole with the images of the shields flickering down. Of the chases brought down by his weakness. Battles lost by his faults. Unwittingly his fingers tensed in Dorian’s hand as he imagined Dorian seeing him like that.

Lost, sad, and overusing wine in Skyhold. Spiteful, weak and cruel in the dungeon. Explaining himself to Hawke and explaining to Dorian what he has done.

He could tell Dorian. Should tell Dorian. Everything from the Council up to now. About his magic, about his desperation, the loneliness of Skyhold. He traced Dorian’s high cheekbone soft enough not to wake him. Looked closely at the handsome, sculpted features.

What would he think of me? What if he could see me clearly? A broken tool, munched and spitted by the mighty of the world when Dorian was just getting ready for greatness of his own?

He was kept all night by it. When the dawn arrived and the time has come to face the consequences he was still indecisive.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the late update! We're slowly getting to the end here (those 12 chapter may have been a bit of an estimate, as I haven't actually put it into chapters before) and as always - all comments and opinions are appreciated!
> 
> Take a look at the rest of the Extraordinary Series!  
> https://archiveofourown.org/series/1521449

**Author's Note:**

> SPOILERS FOR THIS WORK AHEAD!  
> ***  
> ***  
> Additional, spoilery tags that you should read at your own risk: #Verbal attacks #Past trauma #Break up fic
> 
> This story does have an eventual happy ending - but it isn't written yet and may take a long while so I thought you could use some warning beyond the "classical tragedy" tag that is quite vague.


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